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THE

MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO .

A ROMANCE,

BY MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE,

AUTHOR OF THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, &C.

WITH CRITICAL REMARKS,

AND A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.

EMBELLISHED WITH

NUMEROUS ENGRAVINGS ON WOOD.

LONDON :

PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY J. LIMBIRD, 143, STRAND,

(Near Somerset House.)

1836.

L_JKJ> Q 'J**

MEMOIRS

OF

MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.

In nothing, perhaps, is the contrast between the present and preceding
ages, more striking, than in the character of British females, who, in
our times, have burst those boundaries which the " lords of the crea-
tion" had fixed, and boldly contesting with them in the fields of Lite-
rature. It is true, that in all ages, there have been Ladies, whose
talents raised them to a proud distinction ; but their appearance has
been like " angePs visits, few and far between." It has, however,
been reserved to the present age for woman to maintain her first rank
in the creation ; to exchange the distaff for the pens and to wield the
latter with as much force, and as much elegance, as had ever been done
by the other sex.

It has often been the custom to arraign London as deficient in pro-
ducing persons of genius; and yet, considering that it is so much a
ojnmercial city, it has been prolific in the production of persons of
talqpt. — Among the "worthies," as Fuller would call them, that
London has produced, we have to enrol the name of Mrs. Apjn Rad-
cuffe, whose maiden name was Ward, and who was born in the
metropolis on the 9th of July, 1764. She was collaterally descended

MEMOIRS OF MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
from Chesselden, the celebrated surgeon and anatomist. Her pa-
rents gave her a good, though not a classical, education ; and early in
life she discovered much taste for literature, and for contemplating the
beauties of nature. At the age of twenty-three, she was married to
William Radcliffe, Esq., a graduate at Oxford, who was intended
for the bar, and kept several terms at one of the inns of court, but
was never called. He afterwards became Editor and proprietor of a
Newspaper,

It was not until after her marriage, that Mrs. Radcliffe as-
tonished the world with those productions which have since been much
admired, and translated into almost every European language. Her
first production was " The Castles of Athlin and Dunblane/' which
was soon followed by §' The Sicilian Romance/' and " The Romance
of the Forest." In 1795, she published " A Journey made in the sum-
mer of 1793, through Holland, and the Western Frontier of Germany ;"
to which she added, H Observations made during a Tour to the Lakes
of Westmoreland and Cumberland." It was not, however, in the des-
cription of matters of fact that Mrs. Radcliffe excelled ; it was in
wielding the magic wand, and creating regions of her own, where she
might rove [' a chartered libertine," that her great talents were dis-
played. Her next work was, of all her writings, the most popular,
5 The Mysteries of Udolpho," which was followed by her last work,
1 The Italians "

In all the Romances of Mrs. Radcliffe, there was a great deal
of originality ; and she might be said to have founded a new school of
fiction. She disdained the ordinary tract of Novelists, and shook the
soul by the awe of superstition, and the terrors of guilt. She w^ as
the elegant author of the " Pursuits of Literature " described her, « a
mighty magician, bred and nourished by the Florentine muses, in their
sacred, solitary caverns, amid the paler shrines of Gothic superstition

MEMOIRS OF MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE. vii

and in all the dreariness of enchantment.' ' The characters in Mrs.
Radcliffe's Romances are as original and well-drawn, as the
incidents are striking- and impressive ; and few writers ever succeeded
so well in sustaining the interest of a long tale, as this powerful
writer. Her works are also interspersed with several pieces of poetry,
which are elegant and fanciful, displaying the riches of a well-
cultivated mind.

The popularity of Mrs. Radcliffe' s works obtained such prices
as had never before been paid for works of fiction. For the " Mysteries
of Udolpho" she received 500Z., and for " The Italians" 800Z. ; nor were
her Publishers the losers, for the sale was such as not only to cover all
the expenses, but to repay them well for their liberality,

During the last twelve years of her life, Mrs. Radcliffe suffered
under bad health, having been afflicted with a spasmodic asthma. In
the autumn of 1822, she visited Ramsgate, which afforded her a
temporary relief, but she relapsed at the beginning of the ensuing
year. On the 9th of January she was taken very ill, and lingered
until the morning of the 7th of February, 1823, when she tranquilly
expired: and was interred^ in a vault of the Chapel of Ease at
Bayswater.

Mrs. Radcliffe, though a giant in intellect, was low in stature,
and of a slender form, but Exquisitely proportioned; her countenance
was beautiful and expressive.

V

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

<LAXS*SaJ

CHAP. 1.

home is the resort

Of love, of joy, of peace, and plenty, where
Supporting and supported, polish'd friends,
And dear relations, mingle into bliss."

THOMSON.

ON the pleasant banks of the Garonne,
in the province of* Gascony, stood, in the
year 1584, the chateau of Monsieur St. Au-
bert. From its windows were seen the pas-
toral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony
stretching along the river, gay with luxuri-
ant woods and vines, and plantations of
olives. To the south, the view was bounded
by the majestic Pyrenees, whose summits,
veiled in clouds, or exhibiting awful forms,
•ceil, and lost again, as the partial vapours
rolled along, were sometimes barren, and
gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and
•jomctimes frowned with forests of gloomy
pine, that swept downward to theirbase. These
tremendous precipices were contrasted by
ine soft green of the pastures and woods that
hung upon their skirts ; among whose flocks
and herds, and simple cottages, the eye,
after having scaled the cliffs above, delight-
«l to repots*. To 'the north, and to the east,

Vol. 1.

the plains of Guienne and Languedoc were
lost in the mist of distance ; on the west,
Gascony was bounded by the waters of
Biscay.

M. St. Aubert loved to wander, with his
wife and daughter, on the margin of the
Garonne, and to listen to the music that
floated on its waves. He had known life in
other forms than those of pastoral simpli-
city, having mingled in the gay and in the
busy scenes of the world; but the flattering
portrait of mankind, which his heart had
delineated in early youth, his experience had
too "sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidst thf
changing visions of life, his principles re-
mained unshaken, his benevolence unchilled $
and he retired from the multitude, " mofi
in pity than in anger," to scenes of simple
nature, to the pure delights of literature,
and to the exercise of domestic virtues.

He was a descendant from the younger
branch of an illustrious family, and it w*m
designed, that the deficiency of his patrimc
nial wealth should be supplied either by a
splendid alliance in marriage, or by success
in the intrigues of public affairs. But St.
Aubert hart too nice a sense of honour to AiJ

B

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

til the latter hope, and too small a portion
of ambition to sacrifice what he called
happiness, to the attainment of wealth. —
After the death of his father he married a
very amiable woman, his equal in birth, and
not his superior in fortune. The late Mon-
sieur St. Auberfs liberality, or extravagance,
had so much involved his affairs, that his
son found it necessary to dispose of a part
of the family domain ; and, some years after
his marriage, he sold it to Monsieur Ques-
nel, the brother of his wife, and retired to a
small estate in Gascony, where conjugal
felicity, and parental duties, divided his
attention with the treasures of knowledge
and the illuminations of genius.

To this spot he had been attached from
his infancy. He had often made excursions
to it when a boy ; and the impressions of
delight given to his mind by the homely
kindness of the grey-headed peasant, to
whom it was entrusted, and whose fruit and
cream never failed, had not been obliterated
by succeeding circumstances. The green
pastures, along which he had so often
bounded in the exultation of health, and
youthful freedom — the woods, under whose
refreshing shade he had first indulged that
pensive melancholy, which afterwards made
a strong feature of his character — the wild
walks of the mountains, the river, on whose
waves he had floated, and the distant plains,
which seemed boundless as his early hopes —
were never after remembered by St. Aubert
but with enthusiasm and regret. At length
he disengaged himself from the world, and
retired hither, to realize the wishes of many
years.

The building, as it then stood, was mere-
ly a summer cottage, rendered interesting
to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the
beauty of the surrounding scene ; and con-
siderable additions were necessary to make
it a comfortable family residence. St. Au-
bert felt a kind of affection for every part
of the fabric, which he remembered in his
youth, and would not suffer a stone of it to
be removed; so that the new building,
adapted to the style of the old one, formed
with it only a simple and elegant residence.
The taste of Madame St. Aubert was conspi-
cuous in its internal finishing, where the
same chaste simplicity was observable in
the furniture, and in the few ornaments of
the apartments, that characterised the man-
ners of its inhabitants.

The library occupied the west side of the
chateau, and was enriched by a collection of
the best books in the ancient and modern
languages. This room opened upon a grove,
which stood on the brow of a gentle decli-
vity, that fell towards the river, and the tall
trees gave it a melancholy and pleasing
shade; while from the windows the eye
caught, beneath the spreading branches,

the gay and luxuriant landscape stretching
to the west, and overlooked on the left by
the bold precipices of the Pyrenees. Ad-
joining the library was a green-house, stored
with scarce and beautiful plants ; for one of
the amusements of St. Aubert was the study
of botany: and among the neighbouring
mountains, which afforded a luxurious feast
to the mind of the naturalist, he often passed
the day in the pursuit of his favourite science.
He was sometimes accompanied in these
little excursions by Madame St. Aubert, and
frequently by his daughter; when, with a
small osier basket to receive plants, and
another filled with cold refreshments, such
as the cabin of the shepherd did not afford,
they wandered away among the most roman-
tic and magnificent scenes, nor suffered the
charms of Nature's lowly children to abstract
them from the observance of her stupendous
works. When weary of sauntering among
cliffs that seemed scarcely accessible but to
the steps of the enthusiast, and wjiere no
track appeared on the vegetation, but what
the foot of the lizard had left, they would
seek one of those green recesses, which so
beautifully adorn the bosom of these moun-
tains; where, under the shade of the lofty
larch, or cedar, they enjoyed their simple
repast, made sweeter by the waters of the
cool stream, that crept along the turf, and
by the breath of wild flowers and aromatic
plants that fringed the rocks, and inlaid the
grass.

Adjoining the eastern side of the green
house, looking towards the plains of Ivan
guedoc, was a room, which Emily called
her's, and which contained her books, her
drawings, her musical instruments, with
some favourite birds and plants. Here she
usually exercised herself in elegant arts,
cultivated only because they were congenial
to her taste, and in which native genius,
assisted by the instructions of Monsieur and
Madame St. Aubert, made her an early pro-
ficient. The windows of this room were par-
ticularly pleasant; they descended to the
floor, and, opening upon the little lawn that
surrounded the house, the eye was led be-
tween groves of almond, palm-trees* flower-
ing ash, and myrtle, to the distant landscape,
where the Garonne wandered.

The peasants of this gay climate were
often seen on an evening, when the day's
labour was done, dancing in groups on the
margin of the river. Their sprightly melo-
dies, dcbonnaire steps, the fanciful figure of
their dances, with the tasteful and capricious
manner in which the girls adjusted their
simple dress, gave a character to the scene
entirely French.

The front of the'chateau, which, having a
southern aspect, opened upon the grandeur
of the mountains, was occupied on the ground
floor by a rustic hall, and two excellent sitting

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

3

rooms. The first floor, for the cottage had
no second story, was laid out in bed cham-
bers, except one apartment that opened to
a balcony, and which was generally used for
a breakfast room.

In the surrounding ground, St. Aubert
had made very tasteful improvements; yet
such was his attachment to objects he had
remembei-ed from his boyish days, that lie
had in some instances sacrificed taste to
sentiment. There were two old larches that
shaded the building, and interrupted the
prospect : St. Aubert had sometimes declared
that he believed he should have been weak
enough to have wept at their fall. In addi
tion to these larches he planted a little grove
of beech, pine, and mountain ash. On a
lofty terrace, formed by the swelling bank
of the river, rose a plantation of orange,
lemon, and palm trees, whose fruit, in the
coolness of evening, breathed delicious fra-
grance. With these were mingled a few
trees of other species. Here, under the
ample shade of a plane-tree, that spread its
majestic canopy towards the river, St. Aubert
loved to sit in the tine evenings of summer
with his wife and children, watching beneath
its foliage, the setting sun, the mild splen-
dour of its light fading from the distant
landscape, till the shadows of twilight melt-
ed its various features into one tint of sober
grey. Here, too, he loved to read and to
converse with Madame St. Aubert ; or to
play with his children, resigning himself to
the influence of those sweet affections which
are ever attendant on simplicity and nature.
He has often said, while tears of pleasure
trembled in his eyes, that these were mo-
ments infinitely more delightful than any
passed amid the brilliant and tumultuous
scenes that are courted by the world. His
heart was occupied ; it had, what can be so
rarely said, no wish for a happiness beyond
what it experienced. The consciousness of
acting right diffused a serenity over his
manners, which nothing else could impart
to a man of moral perceptions like his, and
which refined his sense of every surrounding
blessing

The deepest shade of twilight did not
send him from his favourite plane-tree. He
loved the soothing hour, when the last tints
of light die away ; when the stars, one by
one, tremble through aether, and are reflect-
ed on the dark mirror of the waters; that
hour, which, of all others, inspires the mind
with pensive tenderness, and often elevates
it to sublime contemplation. When the
moon shed her soft rays among the foliage,
he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of
cream and fruits was often spread beneath
it. Then, on the stillness of night, came
the song of the nightingale, breathing sweet-
ness and avakening melancholy.

The Hist interruptions to the happiness he

had known since his retirement, were occa-
sioned by the death of his two sons. He
lost them at that age when infantine simpli.
city is so fascinating ; and though, in consi-
deration of Madame St. Aubert's distress, he
restrained the expression of his own, and
endeavoured to bear it, as he meant, with
philosophy, he had, in truth, no philosophy
that could render him calm to such losses.
One daughter was now his only surviving
child ; and, while he watched the unfolding
of her infant character, with anxious fond-
ness, he endeavoured, with unremitting
effort, to counteract those traits in her dis-
position, which might hereafter lead her from
happiness. She had discovered in her early
years uncommon delicacy of mind, warm
affections, and ready benevolence ; but with
these was observable a degree of susceptibi-
lity too exquisite to admit of lasting peace.
As she advanced in youth, this sensibility
gave a pensive tone to her spirits, and a
softness to her manner, which added grace
to beauty, and rendered her a very interest-
ing object to persons of a congenial disposi-
tion. But St. Aubert had too much good
sense to prefer a charm to a virtue; and had
penetration enough to see, that this charm
was too dangerous to its possessor to be
allowed the character of a blessing. He
endeavoured, therefore, to strengthen her
mind ; to enure her to habits of self-com-
mand ; to teach her to reject the first im-
pulse of her feelings, and to look, with cool
examination, upon the disappointments he
sometimes threw in her way. While he
instructed her to resist first impressions,
and to acquire that steady dignity of mind,
that can alone counterbalance the passions,
and bear us, as far as is compatible with our
nature, above the reach of circumstances, he
taught himself a lesson of fortitude ; for he
was often obliged to witness, with seeming
indifference, the tears and struggles which
his caution occasioned her.

In person, Emily resembled her mother ,
having the same elegant symmetry of form,
the same delicacy of features, and the same
blue eyes, full of tender sweetness. But,
lovely as was her person, it was the varied
expression of her countenance, as conversa-
tion awakened the nicer emotions of her
mind, that threw such a captivating grace
around her :

** Tnose tend'rer tints, that shun the careless eye.
And, in the world's contagious circle, die."

St. Aubert cultivated her understanding
with the most scrupulous care. He gave
her a general view of the sciences, and an
exact acquaintance with every part of ele
gant literature. He taught her Latin and
English, chiefly that she might understand
the sublimity of their best poets. She disco
vered in her early years a taste for works of
genius ; and it was St. Auherfs principle, ag

THE MYSTERIES OF UJDOLPHO.

well as his inclination, to promote every daughter, and his books ; or came at the

innocent means of happiness, "_A well- sweet evening hour to welcome the silent

informed mi™y* V would say, " is~the best dusk, or to listen to the music of the nighU

security against ffrfl rnntagion offolly and ingale. Sometimes, too, he brought music

oLweet" The vacanflmna is ever on the of his own, and awakened every fair echo

mind
'watch for relief, and ready to plunge into
error, to escape from the languor of idleness.
Store it with ideas, teach it the pleasure of
thinking ; and the temptations of the world
without, will be counteracted by the gratifi-
cations derived from the world within.
Thought, and cultivation, are necessary
equally to the happiness of a country and a
city life; in the first they prevent the uneasy
sensations of indolence, and afford a sublime
pleasure in the taste they create for the
beautiful, and the grand ; in the latter, they
make dissipation less an object of necessity,
and consequently of interest.

It wan one of Emily's earliest pleasures to
ramble among the scenes of nature; nor was
it in the soft and glowing landscape that she
most delighted; she loved more the wild
wood walks, that skirted the mountain ; and
still more the mountain's stupendous re-
cesses, where the silence and grandeur of
solitude impressed a sacred awe upon her
heart, and lifted her thoughts to the God of
Heaven and Earth. In scenes like these
she would often linger alone, wrapt in a
melancholy charm, till the last gleam of day
faded from the west ; till the lonely sound of
a sheep-bell, or the distant bark of a watch-
dog, were all that broke on the stillness of
the evening. Then, the gloom of the woods ;
the trembling of their leaves, at intervals, in
the breeze; the bat, flitting on the twilight;
the cottage lights, now seen, and now lost —
were circumstances that awakened her mind
into effort, and led to enthusiasm and poetry.

Her favourite walk was to a little fishing
house, belonging to St. Aubert, in a Mooay
glen, on the margin of a rivulet that de-
scended to the Pyrenees, and, after foaming
among their rocks, wound its silent way
beneath the shades it reflected. Above the
woods, that screened this glen, rose the lofty
summits of the Pyrenees, which often burst
boldly on the eye, through the glades below.
Sometimes the shattered face of a rock only
was seen, crowned with wild shrubs; or a
shepherd's cabin seated on a cliff, oversha-
dowed by dark cypress, or waving ash.
Emerging from the deep recesses of the
woods, the glade opened to the distant land-
scape, where the rich pastures and vine-
covered slopes of Gascony gradually declined
to the plains, and there, on the winding
shores of the Garonne, groves, and ham-
lets, and villas — their outlines softened by
distance — melted from the eye into one rich
harmonious tint.

This, too, was the favourite retreat of
St. Aubert, to which he frequently withdrew
from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his

with the tender accents of his oboe; and
often have the tones of Emily*s voice drawn
sweetness from the waves, over which they
trembled.

It was in one of her excursions to this spot,
that she observed the following lines writteu
with a pencil on a part of the wainscot:

SONNET.

Go, pencil ! faithful to thy master's sighs,
Go — tell the Goddess of this fairy scene,
When next her light steps wind these wood- walks
green,

Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise

Ah ! paint her form, her soul-illumih'd eyes,
The sweet expression of her pensive face,
The lightning smile, the animated grace— r

The portrait well the lover's voice supplies ;

Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say
Yet ah ! not all his heart must sadly feel !
How oft the flow' ret' s silken leaves conceal

The drug that steals the vital spark away !

And who that gazes on that angel-smile,
Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile !

These line3 were not inscribed to any per-
son : Emily therefore could not apply them
to herself, though she was undoubtedly the
nymph of these shades. Having glanced
round the little circle of her acquaintance
without being detained by a suspicion as to
whom they could be addressed, she was com-
pelled to rest in uncertainty ; an uncertainty
which would have been more painful to an
idle mind than it was to her's. She had no
leisure to suffer this circumstance, trifling at
first, to swell into importance by frequent
remembrance. The little vanity it had ex-
cited (for the incertitude which forbade her
to presume upon having inspired the sonnet,
forbade her also to disbelieve it) passed away,
and the incident was dismissed from her
thoughts amid her books, her studies, and the
exercise of social charities.

Soon after this period, her anxiety was
awakened by the indisposition of her father,
who was attacked with a fever; which, though
not thought to be of a dangerous kind, gave a
severe shock to his constitution. Madame St.
Aubert and Emily attended him with unre
mittingcare; but his recovery was very slow,
and, as he advanced towards health, Madame
seemed to decline.

The first scene he visited, after he was well
enough to take the air, was his favourite
fishing-house. A basket of provisions was
sent thither, with books, and Emily's lute :
for fishing-tackle he had no use, for he never
could find amusement in torturing or des-
troying.

After employing himself, for about an hour,
in botanizing, dinner was served. It was a
repast, to which gratitude, for being again

THE MYStf ER1ES OF UDOLPIIO.

permitted to visit this spot, gave sweetness ;
and family happiness once more smiled be-
neath these shades. Monsieur St. Aubert
conversed with unusual cheerfulness •, every
object delighted his senses. The refreshing
pleasure from the first view of nature, after
the pain of illness, and the confinement of a
sick chamber, is above the conceptions, as
well as the descriptions, of those in health.
The green woods and pastures ; the flowery
turf j the blue concave of the heavens ; the
balmy air ; the murmur of the limpid stream ;
and even the hum of every little insect of the
shade, seem to revivify the soul, and make
mere existence bliss.

Madame St. Aubert, re-animated by the
cheerfulness and recovery of her husband,
was no longer sensible of the indisposition
which had lately oppressed her ; and, as she
sauntered along the wood-walks of this ro-
mantic glen, and conversed with him, and
with her daughter, she often looked at them
alternately with a degree of tenderness, that
filled her eyes with tears. St. Aubert ob-
served this more than once, and gently re-
proved her for the emotion ; but she could only
smile, clasp his hand, and that of Emily, and
weep the more. He felt the tender enthu-
siasm stealing upon himself in a degree that
became almost painful; his features assumed
a serious air, and he could not forbear secret-
ly sighing " Perhaps I shall some time

look back to these moments, as to the summit
of my happiness, with hopeless regret. But
let me not misuse them by useless anticipa-
tion ; let me hope I shall not live to mourn
the loss of those who are dearer to me than
life."

To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pen-
sive temper of his mind, he bade Emily fetch
the lute she knew how to touch with such
sweet pathos. As she drew near the fishing-
house, she was surprized to hear the tones of
the instrument, which were awakened by the
hand of taste ; and uttered a plaintive air,
whose exquisite melody engaged all her at-
tention. She listened in profound silence,
afraid to move from the spot, lest the sound
of her steps should occasion her to lose a
note of the music, or should disturb the mu-
sician. Every thing without the building was
still, and no person appeared. She continued
to listen till timidity succeeded to surprize
and delight: a timidity, increased by a re-
membrance of the pencilled lines she had
formerly seen, and she hesitated whether to
proceed, or to return.

While she paused, the music ceased ; and
after a momentary hesitation, she collected
courage to advance to the fishing-house,
which she entered with faltering steps, and
found unoccupied! Her lute lay on the ta-
ble: every thing seemed undisturbed, and
she began to believe it was another instru-
ment she had heard, till she remembered, that,

when she folloM-ed M. and Madame St. Aubert
from this spot, her lute was left on the win
dow seat. She felt alarmed, yet knew nof
wherefore : the melancholy gloom of evening,
and the profound stillness of the place, inter
rupted only by the light trembling of leaves,
heightened her fanciful apprehensions, and she
was desirous of quitting the building, but
perceived herself grow faint, and sat down.
As she tried to recover herself, the pencilled
lines on the wainscot met her eye; she
started as if she had seen a stranger; but,
endeavouring to conquer the tremour of her
spirits, rose, and went to the window. To
the lines before noticed she now perceived
that others were added, in which hei name
appeared.

Though no longer suffered to doubt that
they were addressed to herself, she was as
ignorant, as before, by whom they could be
written. While she mused, she thought she
heard the sound of a step without the build-
ing ; and again alarmed, she caught up her
lute, and hurried away. Monsieur and Ma-
dame St. Aubert she found in a little path
that wound along the sides of the glen.

Having reached a green summit, shadowed
by the palm-trees, and overlooking the valleys
and plains of Gascony, they seated them
selves on the turf; and while their eyes
wandered over the glorious scene, and they
inhailed the sweet breath of flowers and herbs
that enriched the grass, Emily played and
sung several of their favourite airs, with the
delicacy of expression in which she so much
excelled.

Music and conversation detained them in
this enchanting spot, till the sun's last light
slept upon the plains; till the white sails
that glided beneath the mountains, where the
Garonne wandered, became dim, and the
gloom of evening stole over the landscape.
It was a melancholy, but not unpleasing
gloom. St. Aubert and his family rose, and
left the place with regret : alas ! Madame St.
Aubert knew not that she left it for ever.

When they reached the fishing-house she
missed her bracelet, and recollected that she
had taken it from her arm after dinner, and
had left it on the table when she went to
walk. After a long search, in which Emily
was very active, she was compelled to resign
herself to the loss of it. What made this
bracelet valuable to her, was a miniature of
her daughter to which it was attached,
esteemed a striking resemblance, and which
had been painted only a few months before.
When Emily was convinced that the bracelet
was really gone, she blushed and became
thoughtful. That some stranger had been
in the fishing-house during her absence, her
lute, and the additional lines of a pencil, had
already informed her. From the purport of
these lines, it was now reasonable to be-
lieve, that the poet, the musician, and the

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHC.

thief, were the same person. But though
the music she had heard, the written lines
she had seen, and the disappearance of the
picture, formed a combination of circum-
stances very remarkable, she was irresistibly
restrained from mentioning them; secretly
determining, however, never again to visit
the fishing-house without Monsieur or Ma-
dame St. Aubert.

They returned pensively to the chateau,
Emily musing on the incident which had
just occurred ; St. Aubert reflecting with
placid gratitude, on the blessings he pos-
sessed ; and Madame St. Aubert somewhat
disturbed and perplexed by the loss of her
daughter's picture. As they drew near the
house, they observed an usual bustle about
it ■> the sound of voices was distinctly heard,
servants and horses were seen passing be-
tween the trees, and, at length, the wheels
of a carriage rolled along. Having come
within view of the front of the chateau, a
landau, with smoking horses, appeared on
the little lawn before it. St. Aubert per-
ceived the liveries of his brother-in-law, and
in the parlour he found Monsieur and Ma-
dame Quesnel, already entered. They had
left Paris some days before, and were on the
way to their estate, only ten leagues distant
from La Vallee,and which Monsieur Quesne I
had purchased several years before of St.
Vubert. This gentleman was the only brother
of Madame St. Aubert; but the ties of re-
lationship having never been strengthened by
congeniality of character, the intercourse
between them had. not been frequent. M.
Quesnel had lived altogether in the world ;
his aim had been consequence ; splendour
was the object of his taste ; and his address
and knowledge of character had carried him
forward to the attainment of almost all that
he bfcd courted. By^i man of such a dis-
position, it is not surprising that the virtues
of St. Aubert should be overlooked ; or that
his pure taste, simplicity, and moderated
wishes, were considered as marks of a weak
intellect, and of confined views. The mar-
riage of his sister with St. Aubert had been
mortifying to his ambition ; for he had de-
signed that the matrimonial connexion she
formed should assist him to attain the con-
sequence which he so much desired ; and
some offers were made her by persons whose
rank and fortune flattered his warmest hope.
But his sister, who was then addressed also
by St. Aubert, perceived, or thought she
perceived, that happiness and splendour
were not the same ; and she did not hesitate
to forego the last for the attainment of the
former. Whether Monsieur Quesnel thought
them the same, or not, he would readily
have sacrificed his sister's peace to the gra-
tification of his own ambition ; and, on her
marriage with St. Aubert, expressed in pri-
vate his contempt of her spiritless conduct,

and of the Connexion which it permitted.
Madame St. Aubert, though she concealed
this insult from her husband, felt, perhaps
for the first time, resentment lighted in her
heart ; and, though a regard for her own
dignity, united with considerations of pru-
dence, restrained her expression of this re-
sentment, there was ever after a mild reserve
in her manner towards M. Quesnel, which
he both understood and felt.

In his own marriage he did not follow
his sister's example. His lady was an Italian,
and an heiress, by birth ; and, by nature
and education, was a vain and frivolous
woman.

They now determined to pass the night
with St. Aubert; and as the chateau was
not large enough to accommodate their ser-
vants, the latter were dismissed to the neigh-
bouring village. When the first compliments
were over, and the arrangements for the
night made, M. Quesnel began the display
of his intelligence and connexions ; while
St. Aubert, who had been long enough in
retirement to find these topics recommended
by their novelty, listened with a degree of
patience and attention which his guest mis-
took for the humility of wonder. The latter,
indeed, described the few festivities which
the turbulence of that period permitted tc
the court of Henry the Third, with a minute
ness that somewhat recompensed for his
ostentation ; but when he came to speak of
the character of the Duke de Joyeuse, of a
secret treaty which he knew to be negociating
with the Porte, and of the light in which
Henry of Navarre was received, M. St. Au-
bert recollected enough of his former expe
rience to be assured that his guest could be
only of an inferior class of politicians ; and
that, from the importance of the subjects
upon which he committed himself, he could
not be of the rank to which he pretended to
belong. The opinion* delivered by M . Quesnel
were such as St. Aubert forbore to reply
to ; for he knew that his guest had neither
humanity to feel, nor discernment to per-
ceive, what is just.

Madame Quesnel, meanwhile, was ex
pressing to Madame St. Aubert her asto
nishment, that' she could bear to pass her
life in this remote corner of the world, as
she called it, and describing, from a wish
probably of exciting envy, the splendour of .
the balls, banquets, and processions, which
had just been given by the court, in honour
of the nuptials of the Duke de Joyeuse with
Margaretta of Lorrain, the sister of the Queen.
She described, with equal minuteness, the
magnificence she had seen, and that from
which she had been excluded; while Emily's
vivid fancy, as she listened with the ardent
curiosity of youth, heightened the scenes she
heard of; and Madame St. Aubert, looking
cm her family, felt, ^s a tear stole to her

THE MYSTERIES OF UJDOLPHO.

eye, that though splendour may grace hap-
piness, virtue can only bestow it.

"It is now twelve years, St. Aubert," said
M. Quesnel, " since I purchased your family
estate." — " Somewhere thereabouts," replied
St. Aubert, suppressing a sigh. " It is near
five years since I have been there," resumed
Quesnel 5 " for Paris and its neighbourhood
is the only place in the world to live in;
and I am so immersed in politics, and have
so many affairs of moment on my hands,
that I find it difficult to steal away even
for a month or two." St. Aubert remained
silent, M. Quesnel proceeded : " I have some-
times wondered how you, who have lived in
the capital and have been accustomed to
company, can exist elsewhere; — especially
in so remote a country as this, where you
can neither hear nor see any thing, and can,
in short, be scarcely conscious of life."

" I live for my family and myself," said
^St. Aubert: " I am now contented to knwr
only-hanpiness — formerly I knew life."

" 1 mean to expend tnirty or forty thousand
livres on improvements,!' said M. Quesnel,
without seeming to notice the words of St.
Aubert ; " for I design, nextsummer, to bring
here my friends, the Duke do Durefort and the
Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with
me." To St Aubert's inquiry, as to these
intended improvements, he replied that he
should take down the old east wing of the
chateau, and raise upon the site a set of stables.
« Then I shall build," said he, " a salle a
manger, a salon, a salle an commune, and a
number of rooms for servants, for at pre-
sent there is not accommodation for a third
part of my own people,"

"It accommodated our father's household,"
said St. Aubert, grieved that the old mansion
was to be thus improved, " and that was
not a small one."

" Our notions are somewhat enlarged since
those days," said M. Quesnel : " what was
then thought a decent style of living would
not now be endured." — Even the calm St.
Aubert blushed at these words ; but his
anger soon yielded to contempt. — "The
ground about the chateau is encumbered
with trees; I mean to cut some of them
down."

" Cut down the trees too !" said St. Aubert.

" Certainly — Why should I not ? they in-
terrupt my prospects. There is a chesnut
which spreads its branches before the whole
south side of the chateau, and which is so
ancient that they tell me the hollow of its
trunk will hold a dozen men : your enthu-
siasm will scarcely contend that there can
be either use or beauty in such a sapless
old tree as this."

"Good God !" exclaimedSt. Aubert, "you
surely will not destroy that noble chesnut,
which has flourished for centuries, the glory
of the estate! It was in its maturity wheu

the present mansion was built. How often*
in my youth, I have climbed among its
broad branches, and sat embowered amidst
a world of leaves, while the heavy shower
has pattered above, and not a rain-drop
reached me! How often I have sat with
my book in my hand, sometimes reading,
and sometimes looking out between the
branches upon the wide landscape, and the
setting sun, till twilight came, and brought
the birds home to their little nests among

the leaves ! How often but pardon me,"

added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was
speaking to a man who could neither com-
prehend nor allow for his feeliugs, " I am
talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned
as the taste that would spare that venerable
tree."

" It will certainly come down," said M.
Quesnel : " I believe I shall plant some Lom-
bardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut
that I shall leave of the avenue : Madame
Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells
me how much it adorns a villa of her uncle
not far from Venice."

"On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,"
continued St. Aubert, "where its spiry form
is intermingled with the pine and the cypress,
and where it plays Over light and elegant
porticoes and colonnades, it unquestionably
adorns the scene ; but among the giants of
the forest, andnear a heavy Gothic mansion — "
"Well, my good Sir," said M. Quesnel,
" I will not dispute with you ; you must
return to Paris before our ideas can at all
agree. But d propos of Venice; I have
some thought of going thither next summer 5
events may call me to take possession of
that same villa, too, which they tell me is
the most charming that can be imagined.
In that case I shall leave the improvements
I mention to another year ; and I may per-
haps be tempted to stay some time in Italy."
Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him
talk of being tempted to remain abroad,
after he had mentioned his presence to be
so necessary at Parisj that it was with diffi-
culty he could steal away for a month or
two; but St. Aubert understood the self-
importance of the man too well to wonder
at this trait ; and the possibility that these
projected improvements might be deferred,
gave him a hope that they might never take
place.

Before they separated for the night, M.
Quesnel desired to speak with St. Aubert
alone; and they retired to another room,
where they remained a considerable time.
The subject of this conversation was not
known : but, whatever it might be, St. Aubert,
when he returned to the supper-room, seemed
much disturbed; and a shade of sorrow
sometimes fell upon his features ffcat alarmed
Madame St. Aubert. When they were alone,
bhe was tempted to inquire the occasion o*

THE MYSTERIES Ok ODOLPHO.

it ; butthe delicacy of mind, which had ever
appeared in his conduct, restrained her : she
considered, that, if St. Aubert wished her to
be acquainted with the subject of his con-
cern, he would not wait for her inquiries.

On the following day, before M. Quesnel
departed, he had a second conference with
St. Aubert.

The guests, after dining at the chateau,
set out, in the cool of the day, for Epour-
ville, whither they gave him and Madame
St. Aubert a pressing invitation, prompted
rather by the vanity of displaying their splen-
dour, than by a wish to make their friends
happy.

Emily returned with delight to the liberty
which their presence had restrained — to her
books, her walks, and the rational conver-
sation of M. and Madame St. Aubert ; who
seemed to rejoice no less that they were de-
livered from the shackles which arrogance
and frivolity had imposed.

Madame St. Aubert excused herself from
sharingtheir usual evening walk, complaining
that she was not quite well*, and St. Aubert
and Emily went out together.

They chose a walk towards the mountains,
intending to visit some old pensioners of
St. Aubert, which, from his very moderate
income, he contrived to support; though
it is probable M. Quesnel, with his very
large one, could not have afforded this.

After distributing to his pensioners their
weekly stipends — listening patiently to the
complaints of some, redressing the grievances
of others, and softening the discontents of
all by the look of sympathy and the smile
of benevolence — St. Aubert returned
through the woods,

home

where,

At fall of eve, the fairy people throng,
In various games and revelry to pass
The summer night, as village stories tell."*

" The evening gloom of woods was always
delightful to me," said St. Aubert, whose
mind now experienced the sweet calm which
results from the consciousness of having
done a beneficent action, and which dis-
poses it to receive pleasure' from every sur-
rounding object. " I remember that in my
youth this gloom used to call forth to my
fancy a thousand fairy visions and romantic
images ; and I own I am not yet wholly
insensible of that high enthusiasm which
wakes the poet's dream. I can linger, with
solemn steps, under the deep shades, send
forward a transforming eye into the distant
obscurity, and listen with thrilling delight
to the mystic murmuring of the woods."

" O my dear father," said Emily, while a
sudden tear started to her eye, " how exactly
you describe what I have felt so often, and
which I thought nobody had ever felt but
myself ! But hark ! here coincs the sweeping
* Thomson.

sound over the wood-tops— Now it dies away.
How solemn the stillness that succeeds!
Now the breeze swells again ! It is like the
voice of some supernatural being— the voice
of the spirit of the woods, that watches over
them by night. Ah ! what light is yonder ?
—But it is gone ! — and now it gleams again,
near the root of that large chesnut : look,
sir !"

"Are you such an admirer of nature,"
said St. Aubert, "and so little acquainted
with her appearances, as not to know that
for the glow-worm ? But come," added he
gaily, "step a little further, and we shall
see fairies perhaps : they are often com-
panions. The glow-worm lends his light,
and they in return charm him with music
and the dance. Do you see nothing tripping
yonder ?"

Emily laughed. "Well, my dear sir,"
said she, " since you allow of this alliance,
I may venture to own I have anticipated
you j and^lmost dare venture to repeat some
verses I made one evening in these very woods,"

" Nay," replied St. Aubert, " dismiss the
almost , and venture quite : let us hear what
vagaries fancy has been playing in your
mind. If she has given you one of her
spells, you need not envy those of the fairies."

"If it is strong enough to enchant your
judgment, sir," saici Emily, " while I disclose
her images, I need not envy them. The
lines go in a sort of tripping measure, which
I thought might suit the subject well enough ;
but I fear they are too irregular."

THE GLOW-WORM.

How pleasant is the green wood's deep-matted shade
On a mid-summer's eve, when the fresh rain is o'er ,

When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro*
the glade,
And 8wittly in the thin air the light swallows soar !

But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest,
And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay

Tripping through the forest-walk, where fiow'rs,
imprest,
Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.

To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour.
Till moon-light steals down among the trembling
leaves,
And chequers all the ground, and guides them to
the bow'r,
The long- haunted bow'r where the nightingale
grieves.

Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done,
But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend ;

And often as her dying notes their pity have won,
They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to
defend.

When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev'n-
ing star,
And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy
. sphere,
How cheerless would they be, tho' they fairies are^
If I, with my pale light, came not near !

Yet cheerless tho' they'd be, they're ungrateful to
my love !
For often, when the traveller's benighted on his way.
And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him
thro' the grove,
They bind me in their magic spells to lead him
far astray j

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

And in the mire to leave him, till the star* are all
burnt out;
While, in strange-looking shapes they frisk about
the ground.
And afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout !
Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the
sound.

Hut, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in
a ring,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and
the horn,
And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet
string;
Then round about the oak they go till peeping of
the morn.

Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the
fairy queen,
Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous
is of me,
That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy
green,
To seek the purple flow'r whose juice from all her
spells can free.

And now to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund
band,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and
the lute!
If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy
wand,
And to me the dance will cease, and the music all
be mute.

O ! had I but that purple flow'r whose leaves her

charms can foil,

And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw

it on the wind,

I'd be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile,

And help all faithful lovets, nor fear the fairy kind.'

But soon the vapour of the woods will wander afar,
And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars dis-
appear ;

Then cheerless will they be, tho' they fairies are,
If I, with my pale light, come not near!

Whatever St. Aubert might think of the
stanzas, he would not deny his daughter the
pleasure of believing that he approved them;
and, having given his commendation, he sunk
into a reverie, and they walked on in silence.

A faint erroneous ray,

Glanc'd from th' imperfect surfaces of things,
Flung half an image on the straining eye;
While waving woods, and villages, and streams,
And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain
The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene,
Uncertain if beheld." *

St. Aubert continued silent till he reached
the chateau, where his wife had retired to her
chamber. The languor and dejection that
had lately oppressed her, and which the ex-
ertion called forth by the arrival of her guests
had suspended, now returned with increased
effect. On the following day symptoms of
fever appeared ; and St. Aubert, having sent
for medical advice, learned, that her disorder
was a fever, of the same nature as that from
which he had lately recovered. She had, in-
deed, taken the infection during her atten-
dance upon him ; and her constitution being
too weak to throw out the disease immedi-
ately, it had lurked in her veins, and occa-
sioned the heavy languor of which she had
complained. St. Aubert, whose anxiety for
his wife overcame every other consideration,
• Thomson.

detained the physician in his house. Me
remembered the feelings and the reflections
that had called a momentary gloom upon
his mind, on the day when he had last visited
the fishing-house in company with Madame
St. Aubert, and he now admitted a presenti-
ment that this illness would prove a fatal
one. But he effectually concealed this from
her, and from his daughter, whom he endea-
voured to re-animate with hopes that her
constant assiduities would not be unavailing.
The physician, when asked by St. Aubert for
his opinion of the disorder, replied, that the
event of it depended upon circumstances
which he could not ascertain. Madame St.
Aubert seemed to have formed a more deci-
ded one: but her eyes only gave hints of
this. She frequently fixed them upon her
anxious friends with an expression of pity,
and of tenderness, as if she anticipated the
sorrow that awaited them, and seemed to say,
it was for their sakes only, for their suffer-
ings, that she regretted life. On the seventh
day the disorder was at its crisis. The
physician assumed a graver manner, which
she observed, and took occasion, when her
family had once quitted the chamber, to tell
him that she perceived that her death was
approaching. u Do not attempt to deceive
me," said she : " I feel that I cannot long
survive: 1 am prepared for the event —
1 have long, I hope, been preparing for it.
Since I have not long to live, do not suffer
a mistaken compassion to induce you to
flatter my family with false hopes. If you
do, their affliction will only be the heavier
when it arrives : I will endeavour to teach
them resignation by my example."

The physician was affected : he promised
to obey her, and told St. Aubert, somewhat
abruptly, that there was nothing to expect.
The latter was not philosopher enough to
restrain his feelings when he received this
information ; but a consideration of the in-
creased affliction which the observance of his
grief would occasion his wife, enabled him,
after some time, to command himself in her
presence. Emily was at first overwhelmed
with the intelligence ; then, deluded by the
strength of her wishes, a hope sprung up in
her mind that her mother would yet recover,
and to this she pertinaciously adhered al
most to the last hour.

The progress of this disorder was marked,
on the side of Madame St. Aubert, by patient
suffering, and subjected wishes. The com-
posure with which she awaited her death,
could be derived only from the retrospect of
a life governed, as far as human frailty per-
mits, by a conciousness of being alway in the
presence of the Deity, and by the hope of a
higher world. But her piety could not en-
tirely subdue the grief of parting from those
she so dearly loved. During these her last
hours, she conversed much with St. Aubet*

10

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

and Emily on the prospect of futurity, and
other religious topics. The resignation she
expressed, with the firm hope of meeting in
a future world the friends she left in this, and
the effort which sometimes appeared to con-
ceal her sorrow at this temporary separation,
frequently affected St. Aubert so much as to
oblige him to leave the room. Having in-
dulged his tears a while, he would dry them
and return to the chamber with a countenance
composed by an endeavour which did but
increase his grief.

Never had Emily felt theimportance of the
lessons which had taught her to restrain her
sensibility, so much as in these moments, and
never had she practised them with a triumph
so complete. But when the last was over,
she sunk at once under the pressure of her
sorrow, and then preceived that it was hope,
as well as fortitude, which had hitherto sup-
ported her St. Aubert was for a time too
devoid of comfort himself to bestow any on
his daughter.

CHAP. II.

" I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul." SHAKSPEARE.

Madame St. Aubert was interred in
the neighbouring village church: her hus-
band and daughter attended her to the grave,
followed by a long train of the peasantry, who
Mere sincere mourners of this excellent
woman.

On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert
shut himself in his chamber. When he came
forth, it was with a serene countenance,
though pale in sorrow. He gave orders that
his family should attend him. Emily only
was absent ; who, overcome with the scene
she had just witnessed, had retired to her
closet to weep alone. St. Aubert followed
her thither: he took her hand in silence,
while she continued to weep; and it was
some moments before he could so far com-
mand his voice as to speak. It trembled
while he said, " My Emily, I am going to
prayers with my family ; you will join us.
We must ask support from above. — Where
else ought we to seek it— where else can we
find it?"

Emily checked her tears, and followed her
father to the parlour, where, the servants
being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low
and solemn voice, the evening service, and
added a prayer for the soul of the departed.
During this, his voice often faltered, his
tears fell upon the book, and at length he
paused. But the sublime emotions of pure
devotion gradually elevated his views above
this world, and finally brought comfort to
his heart.

When the service was ended, and the ser-
vants were withdrawn, he tenderly kissed
Emily, and said, " 1 have endeavoured to
teach you, from your earliest youth, the duty

of self-command; I have pointed out to yott
the great importance of it through life, not
only as it preserves us in the various and
dangerous temptations that call us from rec-
titude and virtue, but as it limits the indul-
gences which are termed virtuous* yet which
exteuded beyond a certain boundary, are
vicious, for their consequence is evil. All
excess is vicious; even that sorrow which is
amiable in its origin, becomes a selfish and
unjust passion, if indulged at the expence of
our duties : by our duties I mean what we
owe to ourselves, as well as to others. The
indulgence of excessive grief enervates the
mind, and almost incapacitates it for
again partaking of those various innocent
enjoyments which a benevolent God designed
to be the sunshine of our lives. My dear
Emily, recollect and practise the precepts I
have so often given you, and which your
own experience has so often shown you to be
wise.

" Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive
this as merely a common-place remark, but
let reason therefore restrain sorrow. I would
not annihilate your feelings, my childy I would
only teach you to command them; for what-
ever may be the evils resulting from a too
susceptible heart, nothing can be hoped from
an insensible one ; that, on the other hand,
is all vice — vice, of which the deformity is
not softened, or the effect consoled for,
by any semblance or possibility of good.
You know my sufferings, and are, therefore,
convinced that mine are not the light words
which, on these occasions, are so often re-
peated to destroy even the sources of honest
emotion, or which merely display the selfish
ostentation of a false philosophy. I will
show my Emily, that I can practise what I
advise. I have said thus much, because I
cannot bear to see you wasting in useless
sorrow, for want of that resistance which is
due from mind ; and I have not said it till
now, because there is a period when all rea-
soning must yield to nature; that is past:
and another, when excessive indulgence,
having sunk into habit, weighs down the
elasticity of the spirits so as to render conquest
nearly impossible; this is to come. You,
my Emily, will show that you are willing to
avoid it."

Emily smiled, through her tears, upon her
father: " Dear sir," said she, and her voice
trembled; she would have added, " I will
show myself worthy of being your daugh-
ter ;" but a mingled emotion of gratitude,
affection, and grief, overcame her. St. Au-
bert suffered her to weep without interrup-
tion, and then began to talk on common
topics.

The first person who came to condole with
St. Aubert was a M. Barreaux, an austere
and seemingly unfeeling man. A taste for
botany had introduced them to each other,

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

1!

for they had frequently met in their wan-
derings among the mountains. M. Barreaux
had retired from the world, and almost from
society, to live in a pleasant chateau, on the
skirts of the woods, near La Vallee. He
also had been disappointed in his opinion
of mankind ; but he did not, like St. Aubert,
pity and mourn for them ; he felt more in-
dignation at their vices, than compassion
for their weaknesses.

St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to see
him ; for though he had often pressed him
to come to the chateau, he had never till
now accepted the invitation: and now he
came without ceremony or reserve, entering
the parlour as an old friend. The claims
of misfortune appeared to have softened
down all the ruggedness and prejudices of
his heart. St. Aubert, unhappy, seemed to
be the sole idea that occupied his mind. It
was in manners, more than in words, that
he appeared to sympathise with his friends :
he spoke little on the subject of their grief;
but the minute attention he gave them, and
the modulated voice and softened look that
accompanied it, came from his heart, and
spoke to their's.

At this melancholy period, St. Aubert was
likewise visited by Madame Cheron, his only
surviving sister, who had been some years
a widow, and now resided on her own estate
near Thoulouse. The intercourse between
them had not been very frequent. In her
condolements, words were not wanting ; she
understood not the magic of the look that
speaks at once to the soul, or the voice
that sinks like balm to tne heart : but she
assured St. Aubert that she sincerely sym-
pathised with him; praised the virtues of
his late wife, and then offered what she con-
sidered to be consolation. Emily wept un-
ceasingly while she spoke; St. Aubert was
tranquil, listened to what she said in silence,
and then turned the discourse upon another
subject.

At parting, she pressed him and her niece
to make her an early visit. " Change of
place will amuse you,*' said she; u and it is
wrong to give way to grief." St. Aubert
acknowledged the truth of these words of
course ; but, at the same time, felt more
reluctant than ever to quit the spot which
hte past happiness had consecrated. The
presence of his wife had sanctified every sur-
rounding scene ; and each day as it gradually
softened the acuteness of his suffering,
assisted the tender enchantment that bound
him to home.

But there are calls which must be complied
with, and of this kind was the visit he paid
to his brother-in-law, M. Quesnel. An affair
of an interesting nature made it necessary
that he should delay this visit no longer;
and, wishing to rouse Emily from Jier de-
tjp< tion, he took her with him to Epourville.

As the carriage entered upon the forest
that adjoined his paternal domain, his eyes
once more caught, between the chesnut
avenue, the turreted corners of the chateau.
He sighed to think of what had passed since
he was last there, and that it was now the
property of a man who neither revered nor
valued it. At length he entered the avenue,
whose lofty trees had so often delighted him
when a boy, and whose melancholy shade
was now so congenial with the tone of his
spirits. Every feature of the edifice, dis-
tinguished by an air of heavy grandeur
appeared successively between the branches
of the trees — the broad turret, the arched
gateway that led into the courts, the draw-
bridge, and the dry fosse which surrounded
the whole.

The sound of carriage wheels brought a
troop of servants to the great gate, where
St. Aubert alighted, and from which he led
Emily into the Gothic hall, now no longer
hung with the arms and ancient banners of
the family. These were displaced, and the
oak wainscoting, and beams that crossed the
roof, were painted white. The large table,
too, that used to stretch along the upper
end of the hall, where the master of the
mansion loved to display his hospitality,
and whence the peal of laughter, and the
song of conviviality, had so often resounded,
was now removed; even the benches that
had surrounded the hall were no longer there.
The heavy walls were hung with frivolous
ornaments, and every thing that appeared
denoted the false taste and corrupted sen
timents of the present owner.

St. Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant
to a parlour, where sat Monsieur and Madame
Quesnel, who received him with a stately
politeness, and, after a few formal words of
condolement, seemed to have forgotten that
they ever had a sister.

Emily felt tears swell in her eyes, and
then resentment checked them. St. Aubert,
calm and deliberate, preserved his dignity
without assuming importance, and Quesnel
was depressed by his presence without ex
actly knowing wherefore.

After some general conversation, St. Aubei t
requested to speak with him alone; and
Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel,
soon learned that a large party was inviled
to dine at the chateau, and was compelled
to hear that nothing which was past and
irremediable ought to prevent the festivity
of the present hour.

St. Aubert, when he was told that company
were expected, felt a mixed emotion of dis-
gust and indignation against the insensibility
of Quesnel, which prompted him to return
home immediately. But he was informed
that Madame Cheron had been asked to
meet him ; and when he looked at Emily,
ami considered that a time might come when

1)

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPIIO.

ihe enmity of her uncle would be prejudicial
to her, he determined not to incur it himself,
by conduct which would be resented as in-
decorous, by the very persons who now
showed so little sense of decorum.

Among the visitors assembled at dinner
were two Italian gentlemen, of whom one
was named Montoni, a distant relation of
Madame Quesnel, a man about forty, of an
uncommonly handsome person, with features
manly and expressive, but whose countenance
exhibited, upon the whole, more of the
haughtiness of command, and the quickness
of discernment, than of any other character.

Signor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to be
about thirty — inferior in dignity, but equal
to him in penetration of countenance, and
superior in insinuation of manner,

Emily was shocked by the salutation with
which Madame Cheron met her father —
" Dear brother," said she, " I am concerned
to see you look so very ill ; do, pray, have
advice !" St. Aubert answered with a melan-
choly smile, that he felt himself much as
usual ; but Emily's fears made her now
fancy that her father looked worse than he
really did.

Emily would have been amused by the
new characters she saw, and the varied con-
versation that passed during dinner, which
was served in a style of splendour she had
seldom seen before, had her spirits been less
oppressed. Of the guests, Signor Montoni
Mas lately come from Italy, and lie spoke
of the commotions which at that period
agitated the country ; talked of party diffe-
rences with warmth, and then lamented the
probable consequences of the tumults. His
friend spoke, with equal ardour, of the poli-
tics of his country; praised the government
and prosperity of Venice, and boasted of its
decided superiority over all the other Italian
states. He then turned to the ladies, and
talked with the same eloquence of Parisian
fashions, the French opera, and French
manners; and on the latter subject he did
not fail to mingle what is so particularly
agreeable to French taste. The flattery was
not detected by those to whom it was ad-
dressed, though its effect in producing sub-
missive attention did not escape his obser-
vation. When he could disengage himself
from the assiduities of the other ladies, he
sometimes addressed Emily ; but she knew
nothing of Parisian fashions, of Parisian
operas ; and her modesty, simplicity, and
correct manners, formed a decided contrast
to those of her female companions.

After dinner, St. Aubert stole from the
room, to view once more the old chesnut
which Quesnel talked of cutting down. As
he stood under its shade, and looked up
among its branches, still luxuriant, and
*»w here and there the blue sky trembling
between them, the pursuits and events of

his early days crowded fast to his mind,
with the figures and characters of friends —
long since gone from the earth ! and he now
felt himself to be almost an insulated being,
with nobody but his Emily for his heart to
turn to.

He stpod lost amid the scenes of years
which fancy called up, till the succession
closed with the picture of his dying wife;
and he started away, to forget it, if possible,
at the social board.

St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early
hour, and Emily observed that he was more
than usually silent and dejected on the way
home ; but she considered this to be the
effect of his visit to a place which spoke so
eloquently of former times, nor suspected
that he had a cause of grief which he con-
cealed from her.

On entering the chateau she felt more
depressed than ever, for she more than ever
missed the presence of that dear parent,
who, whenever she had been from home,
used to welcome her return with smiles and
fondness : now all was silent and forsaken I

But what reason and effort may fail to
do, time effects: week after week passed
away, and each, as it passed, stole some-
thing from the harshness of her affliction,
till it was mellowed to that tenderness which
the feeling heart cherishes as sacred. St.
Aubert, on the contrary, visibly declined in
health; though Emily, who had been so
constantly with him, was almost the last
person who observed it. His constitution
had never recovered from the late attaek of
the fever; and the succeeding shock it re-
ceived from Madame St. Aubert's death had
produced its present infirmity. His physi-
cian now ordered him to travel ; for it was
perceptible that sorrow had seized upon his
nerves, weakened as they had been by the
preceding illness; and variety of scene, it
was probable, would, by amusing his mind,
restore them to their proper tone.

For some days, Emily was occupied in
preparations to attend him ; and he, by en-
deavours to diminish his expences at home
during the journey — a purpose which deter
mined him at length to dismiss his domestics.
Emily seldom opposed her father's wishes by
questions or remonstrances, or she would
now have asked why he did not take a ser-
vant, and have represented that his infirm
health made one almost necessary. But
when, on the eve of departure, she found that
he had dismissed Jacques, Francis, and Mary,
and detained only Theresa the old house-
keeper, she was extremely surprized, and ven-
tured to ask his reason for having done so.
" To save expenses, my dear," he replied :—
M we are going on an expensive excursion."

The physician had prescribed the air of
Languedoc and Provence; and St. Aubert
determined, therefore, to travel leisurely

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO

U

along tli«- shores of the Mediterranean, to-
wards Provence.

They retired early to their chamber on
the night before their departure; but Emily
had a few books and other things to collect,
and the clock had struck twelve before she
had finished, or had remembered that some
of her drawing instruments, which she
meant to take with her, were in the parlour
below. As she went to fetch these, she
passed her father's room, and, perceiving
the door half open, concluded that he was
in his study; for, since the death of Madame
St. Aubert, it had been frequently his cus-
tom to rise from his restless bed, and go thi-
ther to compose his mind. "When she was
below stairs, she looked into this room, but
without finding him ; and as she returned to
her chamber she tapped at his door, and, re-
ceiving no answer, stepped softly in, to be
certain whether he was there.

The room was dark, but a light glimmered
through some panes of glass that were pla-
ced in the upper part of a closet-door. Emi-
ly believed her father to be in the closet,
ami, surprized that he was up at so late an
hour, apprehended he was unwell, and was
going to inquire ; but considering that her sud-
den appearance at this hour might alarm him,
she removed her light to the staircase, and
then stepped softly to the closet. On look-
ing through the panes of glass, she saw him
seated at a small table, with papers before
him, some of which he was reading with
deep attention and interest, during which
he often wept, and sobbed aloud. Emily,
who had come to the door to learn whether
her father was ill, was now detained there
by a mixture of curiosity and tenderness.
She could not witness his sorrow without
/being anxious to know the subject of it ;
and she therefore continued to observe him
in silence, concluding that those papers
were letters of her late mother. Presently
he knelt down, and with a look so solemn as
she had seldom seen him assume, and which
was mingled with a certain wild expression,
that partook more of horror than of any
other character, he prayed silently for a
considerable time.

When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on
his countenance. Emily was hastily reti-
ring; but she saw him turn again to the
papers, and she stopped. He took from
among them a small case, and from thence
a miniature picture. The rays of light fell
strongly upon it, and she perceived it to be
that of a lady, but not of her mother.

St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly
upon this portrait, put it to his lips, and
then to his heart, and sighed with a convul-
sive force. Emily could scarcely believe
what she saw to be real. She never knew
till now that he had a picture of any other
lady than her mother, much less that he had

one which he evidently valued so highly*
but having looked repeatedly, to be certain
that it was not the resemblance of Madame
St. Aubert, she became entirely convinced
that it was designed for that of some other
person.

At length St. Aubert returned the picture
in its case ; and Emily, recollecting that she
was intruding upon his private sorrows*
softly withdrew from the chamber.

CHAP. III.

•• O how canst thou renounce the boundless store

Of charms which Nature to her vot'ry yields ]
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore;

The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields ;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,

And all that echoes to the song of even ;
All that the mountain's shelf ring bosoms shields,

And all the dread magnificence of heaven ;
O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven V*

44 These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health,
And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart."

'fhe MINSTREL.

St. Aubert, instead of taking the more
direct road, that ran along the feet of the
Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that,
winding over the heights, afforded more ex-
tensive views and greater variety of romantic
scenery. He turned a little out of his way
to take leave of M. Barreaux, whom he
found botanising in the wood near his cha-
teau, and who, when lie was told the purpose
of St. Aubert's visit, expressed a degree of
concern, such as his friend had thought it
was scarcely possible for him to feel on any
similar occasion. They parted with mutual
regret.

" If any thing could have tempted me
from my retirement," said M. Barreaux,
" it would have been the pleasure of accom-
panying you on this little tour. I do not
often offer compliments; you may there-
fore believe me when I say, that I shall look
for your return with impatience."

The travellers proceeded on their journey.
As they ascended the heights, St. Aubert
often looked back upon his chateau, in the
plain below: tender images crowded to his
mind; his melancholy imagination suggested
that he should return no more ; and, though
he checked this wandering thought, still he
continued to look, till the haziness of distance
blended his home with the general landscape,
and St. Aubert seemed to

44 Drag at each remove a length'ning chain."

He and Emily continued sunk in musing
silence for some leagues ; from which melan-
choly reverie Emily first awoke, and her
young fancy, struck with the grandeur of
the objects around, gradually yielded to de-
lightful impressions. The road now descend-
ed into glens, confined by stupendous walls
of rock, grey and barren, except where
shrubs fringed their summits, or patches of
meagre vegetation tinted their recesses, iu

14

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO

which the wild goat was frequently browsing
And now the way led to the lofty cliffs, from
whence the landscape was seen extending in
all its magnificence.

Emily could not restrain her transport as
she looked over the pine forests of the moun-
tains upon the vast plains, that (enriched
with woods, towns, blushing vines, and
plantations of almonds, palms, and olives)
stretched along, till their various colours
melted in distance into one harmonious hue,
that seemed to unite earth with heaven.
Through the whole of this glorious scene
the majestic Garonne wandered; descending
from its source, among the Pyrenees, and
winding its blue waves towards the Bay of
Biscay.

The ruggedness of the unfrequented road
often obliged the wanderers to alight from
their little carriage; but they thought them-
selves amply repaid for this inconvenience
by the grandeur of the scenes; and, while
the muleteer led his animals slowly over the
broken ground, the travellers had leisure to
linger amid these solitudes, and to indulge
the sublime reflections which soften, while
they elevate, the heart, and fill it with cer-
tainty of a present God! Still the enjoy-
ment of St. Aubert was touched with that
pensive melancholy which gives to every
object a mellower tint, and breathes a sacred
charm over all around.

They had provided against part of the
evil to be encountered from a want of conve-
nient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions
in the carriage, so that they might take
refreshment on any pleasant spot, in the
open air, and pass the nights wherever they
should happen to meet with a comfortable
cottage. For the mind, also, they had pro-
vided, by a work on botany, written by
M. Barreaux, and by several of the Latin
and Italian poets; while Emily's pencil en-
abled her to preserve some of those combi-
nations of forms which charmed her at every
step.

The loneliness of the road, where only
now and then a peasant was seen driving his
mule, or some mountaineer children at play
among the rocks, heightened the effect of
the scenery. St. Aubert was so much struck
with it, that he determined, if he could hear
of a road, to penetrate further among the
mountains, and, bending his way rather
more to the south, to*emerge into Rousil-
lon, and coast the Mediterranean along part
of that country to Languedoc.

Soon after mid-day they reached the sum-
mit of one of those cliffs, which, bright
with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn, like
gems, the tremendous walls of the rocks,
and which overlooked the greater part of
Gascony, and part of Languedoc. Here
was shade, and the fresh water of a spring,
that, gliding among the turf, under the

trees, thence precipitated itself from rock
to rock, till its lashing murmurs were lost
in the abyss, though its white foam was
long seen amid the darkness of the pines
below.

This was a spot well suited for rest, and
the travellers alighted to dine, while the
mules were unharnessed to browse on the
savoury herbs that enriched this summit.

It was some time before St. Aubert or
Emily could withdraw their attention from
the surrounding objects, so as to partake of
theii little repast. Seated in the shade of the
palms, St. Aubert pointed out to her obser-
vation the course of the rivers, the situation
of great towns, and the boundaries of pro-,
vinces, which science, rather than the eye,
enabled him to describe. Notwithstanding
this occupation, when he had talked awhile,
he suddenly became silent, thoughtful, and
tears often swelled to his eyes ; which Emily
observed, and the sympathy of her own
heart told her their cause. The scene before
them bore some resemblance, though it was
on a much grander scale, to a favourite one
of the late Madame St. Aubert, within view
of the fishing house. They both observed
this, and thought how delighted she would
have been with the present landscape, while
they knew that her eyes must never, never
more open upon this world. St. Aubert
remembered the last time of his visiting that
spot in company with her, and also the
mournfully presaging thoughts which had
then arisen in his mind, and were now, even
thus soon, realized ! The recollections sub-
dued him, and he abruptly rose from his
seat, and walked away to where no eye
could observe his grief.

When he returned, his countenance had
recovered its usual serenity : he took Emily's
hand, pressed it affectionately, without
speaking, and soon after called to the mule-
teer, who sat at a little distance, concerning
a road among the mountains towards Rou-
sillon. Michael said there were several that
way, but he did not know how far they
extended, or even whether they were pass-
able ; and St. Aubert, who did not intend to
travel after sun-set, asked what village they
could reach about that time. The muleteer
calculated that they could easily reach
Mateau, which was in their present road ;
but that if they took a road that sloped
more to the south, towards Rousillon, there
was a hamlet, which he thought they could
gain before the evening shut in.

St. Aubert, after some hesitation, deter-
mined to take the latter course; and Michael,
having finished his meal, and harnessed his
mules, again set forward — but soon stopped ;
and St. Aubert saw him doing homage to a
cross that stood on a rock impending over
their way. Having concluded his devotions,
he smacked his whip in the air, and, in

fHE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

15

•pite of the rough road, and the pain of his
poor mules (which he had been lately lament*
ing), rattled, in a full gallop, along the edge
of a precipice which made the eye dizzy to
look down. Emily was terrified almost to
fainting ; and St. Aubert, apprehending still
greater danger from suddenly stopping the

> driver, was compelled to sit quietly, and
trust his fate to the strength and discretion
of the mules, who seemed to possess a greater
portion of the latter quality than their
master ; for they carried the travellers safely
into the valley, and there stopped upon the
brink of the rivulet that watered it.

Leaving the splendour of extensive pro-
spects, they now entered this narrow valley,
screened by

Rocks.on rocks pil'd, as if by magic spell ;

Here scorcli'd by lightnings, there with ivy green.

The scene of barrenness was here and there
interrupted by the spreading branches of the
larch and cedar, which threw their gloom
over the cliff, or athwart the torrent that
rolled in the vale. No living creature ap-
peared— except the izard scrambling among
the rocks, and often hanging upon points so
dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view
of them. This was such a scene as Salvator
would have chosen, had he then existed, for
his canvass. St. Aubert, impressed by the
romantic character of the place, almost ex-
pected to see banditti start from behind some
projecting rock, and he kept his hand upon
the arms with which he always travelled.

As they advanced, the valley opened ; its
savage features gradually softened, and,
towards evening, they were among heathy
mountains, stretched in far perspective,
along which the solitary sheep-bell was
heard, and the voice of the shepherd calling
his wandering flocks to the nightly fold. His
cabin, partly shadowed by the cork-tree and
the ilex, which St. Aubert observed to flou-
rish in higher regions of the air than any other
trees, except the fir, was all the human
habitation that yet appeared. Along the
bottom of this valley the most vivid verdure
was spread ; and in the little hollow recesses
of the mountains, under the shade of the
oak and chesnut, herds of cattle were gra-
zing. Groups of them, too, were often seen
reposing on the banks of the rivulet, or
laving their sides in the cool stream, and
sipping its wave.

The sun was now setting upon the valley ;

its last light gleamed upon the water, and

heightened the rich yellow and purple tints

s of the heath and broom that overspread the

> mountains. St. Aubert inquired of Michael
the distance to the hamlet he had mentioned,
but the man could not with certainty tell ;
and Emily began to fear that he had mis-
taken the road. Here was no human being
to assist or direct them: they had left the
shepherd and his cabin far behind 3 and the

scene became so obscured in twilight, that
the eye could not follow the distant perspec-
tive of the valley, in search of a cottage or a
namlet. A glow of the horizon still marked
the west, and this was of some little use to
the travellers. Michael seemed endeavour-
ing to keep up his courage by singing : his
music, however, was not of a kind to dis-
perse melancholy 5 he sung, in a sort of
chant, one of the most dismal ditties his
present auditors had ever heard, and St.
Aubert at length discovered it to be a ves-
per hymn to his favourite saint.

They travelled on, sunk in that thought-
ful melancholy with which twilight and soli-
tude impress the mind. Michael had now
ended his ditty ; and nothing was heard but
the drowsy murmur of the breeze among
the woods, and its light flutter as it blew
freshly into the carriage. They were at length
roused by the sound of fire-arms. St. Aubert
called to the muleteer to stop, and they lis-
tened. The noise was not repeated; but
presently they heard a rustling among the
brakes. St. Aubert drew forth a pistol, and
ordered Michael to proceed as fast as pos-
sible ; who had not long obeyed before a horn
sounded that made the valleys ring. He
looked again from the window, and then
saw a young man spring from the bushes
into the road, followed by a couple of dogs.
The stranger was in a hunter's dress : his
gun was slung across his shoulders: the
hunter's horn hung from his belt; and in
his hand was a small pike, which, as he
held it, added to the manly grace of his
figure, and assisted the agility of his steps.

After a moment's hesitation, St. Aubert
again stopped the carriage, and waited till
he came up, that they might inquire con-
cerning the hamlet they were in search of.
The stranger informed him that it was only
half a league distant; that he was going
thither himself, and would readily show the
way. St. Aubert thanked him for the oflfcr,
and, pleased with his chevalier-like air and
open countenance, asked him to take a seat
in the carriage ; which the stranger, with an
acknowledgment, declined, adding, that he
would keep pace with the mules. " But I
fear you will be wretchedly acommodated,"
said he : " the inhabitants of these mountains
are a simple people, who are not only with-
out the luxuries of life, but also destitute
of what in other places are held to be its
necessaries."

" I perceive you are not one of its inha-
bitants, sir," said St. Aubert.

" No," sir; lain only a wanderer here."
The carriage drove on; and the nncreasing
dusk made the travellers very thankful that
they had a guide: the frequent glens, too,
that now opened among the mountains,
would likewise have added to their perplex-
ity. Emily, as she looked up one of these,

V

16

THE MYST£RIES OF UDOLPHO.

*aw something at a great distance like a
bright cloud in the air. " YVhat light is
yonder, sir?" said she. St. Aubert looked,
and perceived that it was the snowy summit
of a mountain, so much higher than any
around it, that it still reflected the sun's
rays, while those below lay in deep shade.

At length the village lights were seen to
twinkle through the dusk, and soon after
some cottages were discovered in the valley,
or rather were seen by reflection in the stream
on whose margin they stood, and which still
gleamed with the evening light.

The stranger now came up, and St. Au-
bert, on further inquiry, found not only that
there was no inn in the place, but not any sort
of house of public reception. The stranger,
however, offered to walk on, and inquire for
a cottage to accommodate them ; for which
further civility St. Aubert returned his thanks,
and sam that, as the village was so near, he
would alight and walk with him. Emily
followed slowly in the carriage.

On the way, St. Aubert asked his com-
panion what success he had had in the chase.
" Not much, sir," he replied; nor do I aim
at it : I am pleased with the country, and
mean to saunter away a few weeks among
its scenes : my dogs I take with me more
for companionship than for game: this
dress, too, gives me an ostensible business,
and procures me that respect from the
people which would perhaps be refused to a
lonely stranger who had no visible motive
for coming among them."

" I admire your taste," said St.. Aubert,
" and, if I were a younger man, should like
to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly.
I too am a wanderer ; but neither my plan
nor pursuits are exactly like your'*; — I go
in search of health, as much as of amuse-
ment." St. Aubert sighed, and paused;
and then, seeming to recollect himself, he
resumed : " If I can hear of a tolerable road,
that shall afford decent accommodation, it
is my intention to pass into Rousillon, and
along the sea-shore to Languedoc. You,
sir, seem to be acquainted with the country,
and can, perhaps, give me information on
the subject."

The stranger said, that what information
he could give was entirely at his service ;
and then mentioned a road rather more to
the east, which led to a town, whence it
would be easy to proceed into Rousillon.

They now arrived at the village, and
commenced their search for a cottage that
would afford a night's lodging. In several
which they entered, ignorance, poverty, and
mirth, seemed equally to prevail; and the
owners eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of
curiosity and timidity. Nothing like a bed
could be found ; and he had ceased to in
quire for one, when Emily joined him, whp
observed the languor of her father's counte-

nance, and lamented that he had taken a
road so ill provided with the comforts neces-
sary for an invalid. Other cottages, which
they examined, seemed somewhat less savage
than the former, consisting of two rooms,
if such they could be called — the first ot
these occupied by mules and pigs; the
second by the family, which generally con-
sisted of six or eight children, with their
parents, who slept on beds of skins and
dried beech leaves spread upon a mud floor*
Here light was admitted, and smoke dis-
charged, through an aperture in the roof;
and here the scent of spirits (for the travel-
ling smugglers who haunted the Pyrenees
had made this rude people familiar with the
use of liquors) was generally perceptible
enough. Emily turned from such scenes,
and looked at her father with anxious ten-
derness ; which the young stranger seemed
to observe; for, drawing St. Aubert aside,
he made him an offer of his own bed. " It
is a decent one," said he, " when compared
with what we have just seen, yet such as in
other circumstances I should be ashamed to
offer you." St. Aubert acknowledged how
much he felt himself obliged by this kind-
ness ; but refused to accept it, till the young
stranger would take no denial. " Do not
give me the pain of knowing, sir," said he,
" that an invalid, like you, lies on hard
skins, while I sleep in a bed. Besides, sir,
your refusal wounds my pride: I must be-
lieve you think my offer unworthy your
acceptance. Let me show you the way.
I have no doubt my landlady can accom-
modate this young lady also."

.St. Aubert at length consented, that, if
this could be done, he would accept his
kindness; though he felt rather surprised
that the stranger had proved himself so de-
ficient in gallantry as to administer to the
repose of an infirm man, rather than to
that of a very lovely young woman ; for
he had not once offered the room for Emily.
But she thought not of herself; and the
animated smile she gave him, told how much
she felt herself obliged for the preference of
her father.

- On their way, the stranger, whose name
wjj£*-¥alaixcou£k stepped on first to speak
fo his hostess; and she came out to welcome
St. Aubert into a cottage much superior to
any he had seen. This good woman seemed
very willing to accommodate the strangers,
who were soon compelled to accept the only
two beds in the place. Eggs and milk were
the only food the cottage afforded; but
against scarcity of provisions St. Aubert had
provided; and he requested Valancourt to
stay, and partake with him of less homely
fare — an invitation which was readily ac-
cepted, and they passed an hour in intel-
ligent conversation. St. Aubert was much
pleased with the manly frankness, simplicity^

p. 3$.

iud keen susceptibility to the grandeur of
iture, which his new acquaintance disco-
vered j and, indeed, he had often been heard
o say, that without a certain simplicity of
eart this taste could not exist in any strong
gree.

The conversation was interrupted by a

iolent uproar without, in which the voice

f the muleteer was heard above every other

ound. Valancourt started from his seat,

i went to inquire the occasion; but the

spute continued so long afterwards, that

t. Aubert went himself, and found Michael

uarrelling with the hostess, because she had

fused to let his mule* lie in a little room

lere he and three of hej sons were to pass

he night. The place was wretched enough,

Htt there was no other for these people to

deep in; and, with somew hat more of deli-

< ;acy than was usual among the inhabitants

i>f this wild tract of country, she persisted

I In refusing" to let the animals have the same
bedikambut with her children. This was a
tender point with the muleteer : his honour
was wounded when his mules were treated
with disrespect, and he would have received
a blow, perhaps, with morc^meekness. He
declared that his beasts were as honest
beasts, and as good beasts, as any in the
whole province ; and that they ha4 ^ right
to he well treated wherever they went.
u They are as harmless as lambs," said he,
w if people don't affront them. I never knew

them behave themselves amiss above once
or twice in my life, and then they had good
reason for doing so. Once, indeed, they
kicked at a boy's leg, that lay asleep in the
stable, and broke it ; but I told them they
were out there, and, by St. Anthony! I
believe they understood me, for they never
did so again."

He concluded this eloquent harangue with
protesting that they should share with him,
go where he would.

The dispute was at length settled by
Valancourt, .who drew the hostess aside, and
desired she would let the muleteer and his.
beasts have the place* in question to tin in.
selves, while her sons should have the bid
of skins designed for him, for that he would
wrap himself in his cloak, and sleep on the
bench by the cottage door. But this she
thought it her duty to oppose ; and she felt
it to be her inclination to disappoint the
muleteer. Valancourt, however, was pos*
tive ; and the tedious affair was at length
settled.

It was late when St. Aubert and Emily
retired to their rooms, and Valancourt to
his station at the door, which at this mild
season he preferred to a close cabin and a
bed of skins. St. Aubert was somewhat
surprised to find, in his room, volumes of
Homer, Horace, and Petrarch ; but ibe
name of Valanrourt written in them, tUi
him to whom they belonged,

c

18

THE MYSTERIES OF U£OLPHO.

CHAP. IV.

44 In truth, he was a strange and wayward wight,
Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene:
In darkness and in storm he found delight;
Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene
The southern sun ditfus'd his dazzling sheen.
Even sad vicissitude amus'd his soul;
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to contioul."

The MINSTKEL.

St. AuberT awoke at an early hour, re-
freshed by sleep, and desirous to set for-
ward. He invited the stranger to breakfast
with him ; and, talking again of the road,
Valancourt said that, some months past, he
had travelled as far as Beaujeu, which was
a town of some consequence on the way to
Rousillon. He recommended it to St. Au-
bert to take that route, and the latter deter-
mined to do so.

■ The road from this hamlet," said
Valancourt, " and that to Beaujeu, part
at the distance of about a league and a half
from hence : if you will give me leave, I
will direct your muleteer so far. I must
wander somewhere; and your company
would make this a pleasanter ramble than
any other I could take."

St. Aubert thankfully accepted his ofTer,
and they set out together, the young stran-
ger on foot; for he refused the invitation
of St. Aubert to take a seat in his little
carriage.

The road wound along the feet of the
mountains, through a pastoral valley* bright
with verdure, and varied with groves of
dwarf oak, beech, and sycamore, under
whose branches herds of cattle reposed.
The mountain ash, too, and the weeping
birch, often threw their pendent foliage over
the steeps above, where the scanty soil
scarcely concealed their roots, and where
their light branches waved to every breeze
that fluttered from the mountains.

The travellers were frequently met at this
early hour (for the sun had not yet risen
upon the valley) by shepherds driving im-
mense flocks from their folds to feed upon
the hills. St. Aubert had set out thus early,
not only that he might enjoy the fh-jt ap-
pearance of sun-rise, but that he might in-
hale the first pure breath of morning, which
above all things is refreshing to the spirits
of the invalid. In these regions it was par-
ticularly so, where an abundance of wild
flowers and aromatic herbs breathed forth
their essence on the air.

The dawn, which softened the scenery
with its peculiar grey tint, now dispersed,
and Emily watched the progress of the day,
first trembling on the tops of the highest
cliffs, then touching them with splendid
light, while their sides and the vale below
were still wrapt in dewy mist. Meanwhile
the sullen grey of the eastern clouds began

to blush, then to redden, and then to glow
with a thousand colours, till the golden
light darted over all the air, touched the
lower points of the mountain's brow, and
glanced in long sloping beams upon the
valley and its stream. All nature seemed
to have awakened from death into life.
The spirit of St. Aubert was renovated. His
heart was full: he wept; and his thoughts
ascer.ded to the Great Creator.

Emily wished to trip along the turf, so
green, and bright with dew, and to taste the
full delight of that liberty which the izard
seemed to enjoy as he bounded along the brow
of the cliffs ; while Valancourt often stopped
to speak with the travellers, and with social
feeling to point out to them the peculiar
objects of his admiration. St. Aubert was
pleased with him : " Here is the real inge-
nuousness and ardour of youth," said he to
himself: " this young man has never been
at Paris."

He was sorry when they came to the
spot where the roads parted; and his heart
took a more affectionate leave of him than
is usual after so short an acquaintance. Valan-
court talked long by the side of the carnage;
seemed more than once to be going, but still
lingered, and appeared to search anxiously
for topics of conversation to account for his
delay. At length he took leave. As he went,
St. Aubert observed him look with an earnest
and pensive eye at Emily, who bowed to him
with a countenance full of timid sweetness,
while the carriage drove on. St. Aubert, for
whatever reason, soon after looked from the
window, and saw Valancourt standing upon
the bank of the road, resting on his pike with
folded arms, and following the carriage with
his eyes. He waved his hand, and Valancourt
seeming to awake from his reverie, returned
the salute, and started away.

The aspect of the country now began to
change, and the travellers soon found them-
selves among mountains covered from their
bases nearly to their summits with forests of
gloomy pkie, except where a rock of granite
shot up from the vale and lost its snowy top
in the clouds. The rivulet, which had
hitherto accompanied them, now expanded
into a river; and, flowing deeply and silently
along, reflected, as in a mirror, the blackness
of the impending shades. Sometimes a cliff
was seen lifting its bold head above the woods
and the vapours that floated midway down
the mountains ; and sometimes a face of
perpendicular marble rose from the water's
edge, over which the larch threw his gigantic
arms, here scathed with lightning, and there
floatvig m luxuriant foliage.

They continued to travel over a rough a.id
unfrequented road, seeing now and then at
a distance the solitary shepherd, with his
dog, stalking along the valley, and hearing
only the dashing of torrents, which the

THE MYSTERIES OF UKOLPHO.

19

woods concealed from the eye, the long sul-
len murmur of the breeze, as it swop! over
the pines, or the notes of the eagle and the
vulture, which were seen towering round
the beetling cliff.

Often, as the carriage moved slowly over
uneven ground, St. Aubert alighted, and
amused himself with examining the curious
plants that grew on the banks of the road,
and with which these regions abound ; while
Emily, wrapped in high enthusiasm, wan-
dered away under the shades, listening in
deep silence to the lonely murmur of the
woods.

Neither village nor hamlet was seen for
many leagues : the goat-herd's or the hun-
ter's cabin, perched among the cliffs of the
rocks, were the only human habitations
that appeared.

The travellers again took their dinner in
the open air, on a pleasant spot in the val-
ley, under the spreading shade of cedars ;
and then set forward towards Beaujcu.

The road now began to ascend, and, leav-
ing the pine forests behind, wound among
rocky precipices. The evening twilight
again fell over the scene, and the travellers
were ignorant how far they might yet be
from Beaujeu. St. Aubert, however, con-
jectured that the distance could not be very
great, and comforted himself with the pro-
spect of travelling on a more frequented
road after reaching that town, where he
designed to pass the night. Mingled woods,
and rocks, and heathy mountains, were now
seen obscurely through the dusk ; but soon
even these imperfect images faded in dark-
ness. M ichael proceeded with caution, for
he could scarcely distinguish the road : his
mules, however, seemed to have more saga-
city, and their steps were sure.

On turning the angle of a mountain, a
light appeared at a distance, that illumined
the rocks and the horizon to a great extent.
It was evidently a large tire 5 but whether
accidental or otherwise, there were no means
of kuowing. St. Aubert thought it was
probably kindled by some of the numerous
banditti that infested the Pyrenees, and he
became watchful, aud anxious to know
whether the road passed near this fire. He
had arms with him, which on an emergency
might afford some protection, though cer-
tainly a very unequal one, aga 1.1st a band of
robbers, so desperate too as those usually
were who haunted these wild regions. While
many reflections rose upon his mind, he
heard a voice shouting from the road behind,
and ordering the muleteer to stop. St. Au-
bert bade him proceed as fast as possible 5
but either Michael or vhis mules were obsti-
nate, for they did not quit the old pace.
Hoi-ses* feet were now heard : a man rode
up to the carriage, still ordering the driver
to stop ; and St. Aubert, who could no

longer doubt his purpose, was with difficulty
able to prepare a pistol for his defence,
when his hanp! was upon the door of the
chaise. The man staggered on his horse;
the report of the pistol was followed by a
groan ; and St. Aubert's horror may be ima-
gined, when in the next instant he thought
he heard the faint voice of Valancourt. He
now himself bade the muleteer stop; and, pro-
nouncing the name of Valancourt, was an-
swered in a voice that no longer suffered him to
doubt. St. Aubert, who instantly alighted,
and went to his assistance, found him still
sitting on his horse, but bleeding profusely,,
and appearing to be in great pain, though
he endeavoured to soften the terror of
St. Aubert by assurances that he was not
materially hurt, the wound being Only in
his arm. St. Aubert, with the muleteer,
assisted him to dismount, and he sat down
on the bank of the road, where St. Aubert
tried to bind up his arm; but his hands
trembled so excessively, that he could not
accomplish it ; and, Michael being now gone
in pursuit of his horse, which, on being dis-
engaged from the rider, had gallopped off",
he called Emily to his assistance. Receiv-
ing no answer, he went to the carriage, and
found her sunk on the seat in a fainting fit.
Between the distress of this circumstance
and that of leaving Valancourt bleeding, he
scarcely knew what he did; he endeavoured,
however, to raise her, and called to Michael
to fetch Water from the rivulet that flowed
by the road ; but Michael was gone beyond
the reach of his voice. Valancourt, who
heard these calls, and also the repeated
name of Emily, instantly understood the
subject of his distress; and, almost forget-
ting his own condition, he hastened to her
relief. She was reviving when he reached
the carriage; and then, understanding that
anxiety for him had occasioned her indispo-
sition, he assured her, in a voice that trem
bled, but not from anguish, that his wound
was of no consequence. While he said this,
St. Aubert turned round, and perceiving that
he was still bleeding, the subject of his ahum
changed again, and he hastily formed some
handkerchiefs into a bandage. This stopped
the effusion of the blood; but St. Aubert,
dreading the consequence of the wound, in-
quired repeatedly how far they were from
Beaujeu ; when learning that it was at two
leagues' distance, his distress increased,
since he knew not how Valancourt, in his
present state, would bear the motion of the
carriage, and perceived that he was already
faint from loss of blood When he mention-
ed the subject of his anxiety, Valancourt
entreated that he would not suffer himself
to be thus alarmed on his account, for that
he had no doubt he should be able to sup-
port himself very well ; and then he talked
of the accident as a slight one. The mule

w

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

teer beinf Uvvw returned with Valancourt's
horse, assisted him into the chaise ; and, as
Emily was now revived, they moved slowly
on towards Beau j en.

St. Aubert, when he had recovered from
the terror occasioned him by this accident,
expressed surprize on seeing Valancourt,
who explained his unexpected appearance,
by saying, " You, sir, renewed my taste for
society ; when you had left the hamlet, it
did indeed appear a solitude. I determined,
therefore, since my object was merely
amusement, to change the scene ; and I
took this road, because I knew it led through
a more romantic tract of mountains than the
spot I have left. Besides," added he, hesitating
for an instant, " I will own — and why should
I not ? — that I had some hope of overtaking
you."

" And I have made you a very unex-
pected return for the compliment," said
St. Aubert, who lamented again the rash-
ness which had produced the accident, aud
explained the cause of his late alarm. But
Valancourt seemed anxious only to remove
from the minds of his companions every
unpleasant feeling relative to himself; and,
for that purpose, still struggled against a
sense of pain, and tried to converse with
gaiety. Emily meanwhile was silent, except
when Valancourt particularly addressed her;
and there was at those times a tremulous
tone in his voice that spoke much.

They were now so near the fire which had
long flamed at a distance on the blackness
of night, that it gleamed upon the road,
and they could distinguish figures moving
about the blaze. The way winding still
nearer, they perceived in the valley one of
those numerous bands of gipsies, which at
that period particularly haunted the wilds of
the Pyrenees, and lived partly by plunder-
ing the traveller. Emily looked with some
degree of terror on the savage countenances
of these people, shown by the fire, which
heightened the romantic effect of the sce-
nery, as it threw a red dusky gleam upon
the rocks and on the foliage of the trees,
leaving heavy masses of shade and regions
of obscurity which the eye feared to pene-
trate.

They were preparing their supper : a
large pot stood by the fire, over which seve-
ral figures were busy. The blaze discovered
a rude kind of tent, round which many
children and dogs were playing; and the
whole formed a picture highly grotesque.
The travellers saw plainly their danger.
Valancourt was silent, but laid his hand on
one of St. Aubert's pi Jtols ; St. Aubert drew
forth another ; and Michael was ordered to
proceed as fast as possible. They passed
the place, however, without being attacked ;
the rovei*s being, prohably, unprepared for
>he opportunity, ana 10c busy about their

supper to feel much interest, at the moment,
in any thing besides.

After a league and a half more passed in
darkness, the travellers arrived at Beaujeu,
and drove up to the only inn the place
afforded; which, though superior to any
they had seen since they entered the moun-
tains, was bad enough.

The surgeon of the town was immediately
sent for, if a surgeon he could be called,
who prescribed for horses as well as for men,
and shaved faces at least as dexterously aa
he set bones. After examining Valancourt'*
arm, and perceiving that the bullet had
passed through the flesh without touching
the bone, he dressed it, and left him with a
solemn prescription of quiet, which his
patient was not inclined to obey. The de-
light of ease had now succeeded to pain,-—
for ease may be allowed to assume a positive
quality when contrasted with anguish ; and
his spirits thus re-animated, he wished to
partake of the conversation of St. Aubert
and Emily, who, released from so many
apprehensions, were uncommonly cheerful.
Late as it was, however, St. Aubert was
obliged to go out with the landlord to buy
meat for supper; and Emily, who, during
this interval, had been absent as long as she
could, upon excuses of looking to their
accommodation, which she found rather
better than she expected, was compelled to
return, and converse with Valancourt alone.
They talked of the character of the scenes
they had passed, of the natural history of
the country, of poetry, and of St. Aubert,
a subject on which Emily always spoke and
listened to with peculiar pleasure.

The travellers passed an agreeable even-
ing ; but St. Aubert was fatigued with his
j( ui in y, and, as Valancourt seemed again
sc«wmle of pain, they separated soon after
supper.

in the morning St. Aubert found that
Valancourt had passed a restless night ; that
he was feverish, and his wound very painful.
The surgeon, when he dressed it, advised
him to remain quietly at Beaujeu ; advice
which was too reasonable to be rejected.
St. Aubert, however, had.no favourable opi
nion of this practitioner, and was anxious
to commit Valancourt into more skilful
hands ; but learning, upon inquiry, that
there was no town within several leagues
which seemed likely to afford better advice,
he altered the plan of his journey, and
determined to await the recovery of Valan-
court, who, with somewhat more ceremony
than sincerity, made many objections to
this delay.

By order of his surgeon, Valancourt did
not go out of the house that day ; but St.
Aubert and Emily surveyed with delight the
environs of the town, situated at the feet \jf
the Pyreneau Alps, that rose, some in ab-

THE MYSTERIES OE UDOLP1IO.

n

rapt precipices, and others swelling with
woods of cedar, fir, and cypress, which
stretched nearly to their highest sum-
mits. The cheerful green of the beech and
mountain ash was sometimes seen, like a
gleam of light, amidst the dark verdure of
the forest ; and sometimes a torrent poured
its sparkling flood high among the woods.
4 Valancourt's indisposition detained the
travellers at Beaujeu several days, during
which interval St. A ubert had observed his
disposition and his talents with the philo-
sophic inquiry so natural to him. He saw
a frank and generous nature, full of ardour,
highly susceptible of whatever is grand and
beautiful, but impetuous, wild, and some-
what romantic. Valancpurt had known
little of the world. His perceptions were
clear, and his feelings just ; his indignation
of an unworthy, or his admiration of a gene-
rous action, were expressed in terms of equal
vehemence. St.. A ubert sometimes smiled
at his warmth, but seldom checked it, and
often repeated to himself, " This young man
nas never been at Paris." A sigh sometimes
followed this silent ejaculation. He deter-
mined not to leave Valancourt till he should
be perfectly recovered ; and, as he was now
well enough to travel, though not able to
manage his horse, St. A ubert invited him
to accompany him for a few days in the
carriage. This he the more readily did,
since he had discovered that Valancourt was
of a family of the same name in Gascony,
with whose respectability he was well ac-
quainted. The latter accepted the offer
with great pleasure, and they again set
forward among these romantic wilds towards
Rousillon.

They travelled leisurely j stopping where-,
ever a scene uncommonly g**and appeared \
frequently alighting to walk to an eminence,
whither the mules could not go, from which
the prospects opened in greater magnifi-
cence j and often sauntering over hillocks
covered with lavender, wild thyme, juniper,
and tamarisc, and under the shades of woods,
between whose boles they caught the long
mountain vista, sublime beyond any thing
that Emily had ever imagined.

St. Aubert sometimes amused himself
with botanising, while Valancourt and Emily
strolled on •, he pointing out to her notice
the objects that particularly charmed him,
and reciting beautiful passages from such
of the Latin and Italian poets as he had
heard her admire. In the pauses of conver-
sation, when he thought himself not obser-
ved, he frequently fixed his eyes pensively
on her countenance, which expressed with
so much animation the taste and energy of
ner mind ; and when he spoke again, there
was a peculiar tenderness in the tone of his
voice, that defeated any attempt to conceal
his sentiments. By degrees these silent

pauses became more frequent \ till Emily,
only, betrayed an anxiety to interrupt them;
and she who had been hitherto reserved,
would now talk again, and again, of the
woods, and the valleys, and the mountains,
to avoid the danger of sympathy and silence.
From Beaujeu the road had constantly
ascended, conducting the travellers into the
higher regions of the air, where immense
glaciers exhibited their frozen horrors, and
eternal snow whitened the summits of the
mountains. They often paused to contem-
plate these stupendous scenes, and, seatec
on some wild cliff, where only the ilex or
the larch could flourish, looked over darl*
forests of fir, and precipices where human
foot had never wandered, into the glen—
so deep that the thunder of the torrent
which was seen to foam along the bottom,
was scarcely heard to murmur. Over these
crags rose others of stupendous height, and
fantastic shape ; some snooting into cones ;
others impending far over their base, in
huge masses of granite, along whose broken
ridges was often lodged a weight of snow,
that, trembling even to the vibration of a
sound, threatened to bear destruction in its
course to the vale. Around, on every side,
far as the eye could penetrate, were seen
only forms of grandeur — the long perspective
of mountain tops, tinged with ethereal blue
or white with snow ; valleys of ice, and
forests of gloomy fir. The serenity and
clearness of the air in these high regions
were particularly delightful to the travellers ;
it seemed to inspire them with a finer spirit,
and diffused an indescribable complacency
over their minds. They had no words to
express the sublime emotions they felt. A
solemn expression characterised the feelings
of St. Aubert ; tears often came to his eyes,
and he frequently walked away from his
companions. Valancourt now and then
spoke, to point to Emily's notice some fea
ture of the scene. The thinness of the
atmosphere, through which every object
came so distinctly to the eye, surprised and
deluded her, who could scarcely believe that
objects which appeared so near were, in
reality, so distant. The deep silence of these
solitudes was broken only at intervals by
the scream of the vultures, seen cowering
round some cliff below, or by the cry of the
eagle sailing high in the air ; except when
the travellers listened to the hollow thunder
that sometimes muttered at- their feet.
While, above, the deep blue of the Leavens
was unobscured by the lightest cloud, half
way down the mountains long billows of
vapour were frequently seen rolling, now
wholly excluding the country below, and now
opening and partially revealing its features.
Emily delighted to observe the grandeur of
these clouds as they changed in shape and
tints, and to watch their various effeei on

n

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

the lower world, whose features, partly veiled,
were continually assuming new forms of
sublimity.

After traversing these regions for many
leagues, they began to descend towards
Rousillon, and features of beauty then min-
gled with the scene. Yet the travellers did
not look back without some regret to the
sublime objects they had quitted ; though
the eye, fatigued with the extension of its
powers, was glad to repose on the verdure
of woods and pastures, that now hung on
the margin of the river below ; to view again
the humble cottage shaded by cedars, the
playful group of mountaineer-children, and
the flowery nooks that appeared among
the hills.

As they descended, they saw at a distance,
on the right, one of the grand passes of
the Pyrenees into Spain, gleaming with its
battlements and towers to the splendour of
the setting rays ; yellow tops of woods
colouring the steeps below, while far above
aspired the snowy points of the mountains,
still reflecting a rosy hue.

St. Aubert began to look out for the little
town he had been directed to by the people
of Beaujeu, and where he meant to pass the
night ; but no habitation yet appeared. Of ,
its distance Valancoxirt could not assist him
to judge, for he had never been so far along
this chain of Alps before. There was, how-
ever, a road to guide them ; and there could
be little doubt that it was the right one ;
for, since they had left Beaujeu, there had
been no variety of tracks to perplex or
mislead.

The sun now gave his last light, and St.
Aubert bade the muleteer proceed with all
possible dispatch. He found, indeed, the
lassitude of illness return upon him, after a
day of uncommon fatigue, both of body and
mind, and he longed for repose. His anxiety
was not soothed by observing a numerous
train, consisting of men, horses, and loaded
mules,winding down the steeps of an opposite
mountain, appearing and disappearing at
intervals among the woods, so that its num-
bers could not be judged of. Something
bright, like arms, glanced in the setting
ray, and the military dress was distin-
guishable upon the men who were in the
van, and on others scattered among the
troops that followed. As these wound into
the vale, the rear of the party emerged
from the w^ods, and exhibited a band of
soldiers. Si. Aubert's apprehensions now
subsided; he had no doubt that the train
before him consisted of smugglers who,
«n conveying prohibited goods over the
Pyrenees, had been encountered and con-
quered by a party of troops.

The travellers had lingered so long among
the sublimer scenes of these mountains, that
they found themselves entirely mistaken in

their calculation that they could reach Mon
tigny at sun-set ; but, as they wound along
the valley, they saw, on a rude alpine bridge
that united two lofty crags of the glen, a
group of mountaineer children, amusing
themselves with dropping pebbles into a
torrent below, and watching the stones plunge
into the water, that threw up its white spray
high in the air as it received them, and re-
turned a sullen sound, which the echoes of
the mountains prolonged. Under the bridge
was seen a perspective of the valley, with
its cataract descending among the rocks,
and a cottage on a clifT, overshadowed with
pines. It appeared that they could not be
far from some small town. St. Aubert bade
the muleteer stop, and then called to the
children to inquire* if he was near Montigny ;
but the distance, and the roaring of the
waters, would not suffer his voice to be
heard ; and the crags adjoining the bridge
were of such tremendous height and steep-
ness, that to have climbed either would
have been scarcely practicable to a person
unacquainted with the ascent. St. Aubert,
therefore, did not waste more moments in
delay. They continued to travel long after
twilight had obscured the road, which was
so broken, that, now thinking it safer to
walk than to ride, they all alighted. The
moon was rising, but her light was yet too
feeble to assist them. While they stepped
carefully on, they heard the vesper-bell of a
convent. The twilight would not permit
them, to distinguish any thing like a building,
but the sounds seemed to come from some
woods that overhung an acclivity to the
right. Valancourt proposed to go in search
of this convent. "If they will not accom.
modate us with a night's lodging," said he,
" they may certainly inform us how far we
are from Montigny, and direct us towards
it." He was bounding forward, without wait-
ing St. Aubert' s reply, when the latter stopped
him. " I am very weary," said St. Aubert,
" and wish for nothing so much as for im
mediate rest. We will all goto the convent;
your good looks would defeat our purpose ;
but when they see mine and Emily's ex
hausted countenance, they will scarcely deny
us repose."

As he said this, he took Emily's arm
within his, and telling Michael to wait a
while in the road with the carriage, they
began to ascend towards the woods, guided
by the bell of the convent. His steps were
feeble, and Valancourt offered him his arm,
which he accepted. The moon now threw a
faint light over their path, and, soon after,
enabled them to distinguish some towers
rising above the tops of the woods. Still
following the note of the bell, they entered
the shade of those woods, lighted only by
the moon-beams, that glided down between
the leaves, and threw a tremulous uncertain

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

fream upon the steep track they were wind-
ing. The gloom, and the silence that pre-
vailed (except when the bell returned upon
the air), together with the wildness of the
surrounding scene, struck Emily with a
degree of fear ; which, however, the voice
and conversation of Valancourt somewhat
repressed.

When they had been some time ascending,
St. Aubert complained of weariness; and
they stopped to rest upon a little green
summit, where the trees opened and admitted
the moon-light. He sat down upon the turf,
between Emily and Valancourt. The bell
had now ceased, and the deep repose of the
scene was undisturbed by any sound ; for
the low dull murmur of some distant torrents
might be said to sooth rather than to inter-
rupt the silence. Before them extended the
valley they had quitted: its rocks and woods
to the left, just silvered by the rays, formed
a contrast to the deep shadow that involved
the opposite cliffs, whose fringed summits
only were tipped with light ; while the dis-
tant perspective of the valley was lost in the
yellow mist of moon-light. The travellers
sat for some time wrapt in the complacency
such scenes inspire.

"These scenes," said Valancourt, at length,
c< soften the heart like the notes of sweet
music, and inspire that delicious melancholy
which no person, who had felt it once, would
resign for the gayest pleasures. They awaken
our best and purest feelings ; disposing us
to benevolence, pity, and friendship. Those
whom I love, I always seem to love more
in such an hour as this." His voice trem-
bled, and he paused.

St. Aubert was silent : Emily perceived a
warm tear fall upon the hand he held : she
knew the object of his thoughts — her's, too,
had for some time been occupied by the re-
membrance of her mother. He seemed by
an effort to rouse himself. " Yes," said he,
with a half-suppressed sigh, " the memory
of those we love— -of times for ever past ! —
in such an hour as this steals upon the mind,
like a strain of distant music in the stillness
of night — all tender and harmonious as this
landscape, sleeping in the yellow moon-light."
After the pause of a moment, St. Aubert
added, " I have always fancied that I thought
with more clearness and precision at such an
hour, than at any other ; and that heart
must be insensible in a great degree that
does not soften to its influence. But many
such there are."

Valancourt sighed.

" Are there, indeed, many such ?" said
Emily.

" A few years hence, my Emily," replied
St, Aubert, " and you may smile at the re-
collection of that question — if you do not
weep to it But come ; I am somewhat re-
ireshed; let us proceed."

Having emerged from the woods, they
saw, upon a turfy hillock above, the convent
of which they were in search. A high wall
that suiTOunded it, led them to an ancient
gate, at which they knocked; and the poor
monk who opened it conducted them into 0
small adjoining room, where he desired the>
would wait while he informed the superioi
of their request. In this interval severa*
friars came in separately to look at them ,
and at length the first monk returned, and
they followed him to a room, where the
superior was sitting in an arm-chair, with a
large folio volume, printed in black letter,
open on a desk before him. He received
them with courtesy, though he did not rise
from his seat j and, having asked them a
few questions, granted their request. After
a short conversation, formal and solemn on
the part of the superior, they withdrew to
the apartment where they were to sup ; and
Valancourt, whom one of the inferior friars
civilly desired to accompany, went to seek
Michael and his mules. They had not de-
scended half way down the cliffs before they
heard the voice of the muleteer echoing far
and wide. Sometimes he called on St. Aubert,
and sometimes on Valancourt ; who having
at length convinced him that he had nothing
to fear, either for himself or his master, and
having disposed of him for the night in a
cottage on the skirts of the woods, returneo
to sup with his friends on such sober fare
ns the monks thought it prudent to set be
fore them. While St. Aubert was too mucn
indisposed to share it, Emily, in her anxiety
for her father, forgot herself; and Valancourt,
silent and thoughtful, yet never inattentive
to them, appeared particularly solicitous to
accommodate and relieve St. Aubert ; wht
often observed, while his daughter was pre?
sing him to eat, or adjusting the pillow she
had placed in the back of his arm-chair
that Valancourt fixed on her a look of pen-
sive tenderness, which he was -not displeased
to understand.

They separated at an early hour, and re-
tired to their resp' :ve apartments. Emily
was shown to her'.'.-.'py a nun of the convent,
.whom she Mas glad to dismiss, for her heart
was melancholy, and her attention so much
abstracted, that conversation with a stranger
was painful. She thought her father daily
declining; and attributed his present fatigue
more to the feeble state of his frame than
to the difficulty of the journey! A train of
gloomy ideas haunted her mind, till she
fell asleep.

In about two hours after she was awakened
by the chiming of a bell, and then heard
quick steps pass along the gallery into
which her chamber opened. She was so
little accustomed to the manners of a con-
vent, as to be alarmed by this circumstance:
her fears, ever alive for her father, suggested

^4

THE MYSTERIES OF U.DOLPHO.

that he was very ill, and she arose in haste
to go to him. Having paused, however, to
let the persons in the gallery pass before
»h€ opened her door^ her thoughts in the
mean time recovered from the confusion of
*ieep, and she understood that the bell was
the call of the monks to prayers. It had
now ceased, and all being again still, she
forbore to go to St. Aubert's room. Her
mind was not disposed for immediate sleep,
and the moon-light, that shone into" her
chamber, invited her to open the casement,
aud look out upon the country.

It was a still and beautiful night— the sky
was unobscurcd by any cloud, and scarce a
leaf of the woods beneath trembled in the
air. As she listened, the mid-night hymn
of the monks rose softly from a chapel that
stood on one of the lower cliffs — a holy
strain, that seemed to ascend through the
silence of night to heaven ; and her thoughts
ascended with it. From the consideration
of his works, her mind arose to the adora-
tion of the Deity, in his goodness and pow-
er ; wherever she turned her view, whether
on the sleeping earth, or to the vast regions
of space, glowing with worlds beyond the
reach of human thought, the sublimity of
God and the majesty of his presence ap-
peared. Her eyes were filled with tears
of awful love and admiration ; ami she felt
that pure devotion, superior to all the dis-
tinctions of human system, which lifts the
soul above this world, and seems to ex-
pand it into a nobler nature — soch devo-
tion as can, perhaps, only be experienced
when the mind, rescued for a moment from
the humbleness of earthly considerations, as-
pires to contemplate His power in the sub-
limity of His works, and His goodness in
the infinity of His blessings.

« Is it not nov the hour,

The holy hour, when, to the cloudless height
Ofyon stair' d concave, climbs the full -orb' d moon ;
And to this nether world, in solemn stillness,
Gives sign, that, to the Hst'iring ear of Heaven,
Religion's voice should plead? "The very babe
Knows this, and, 'chance awak'd, his little hands
Lifts to the gods, and on his innocent couch
Calls down a blessing.'"'

The midnight chant of the monks soon
after dropped into silence ; but Emily re-
mained at the casement, watching the set-
ting moon, and the valley sinking into deep
fhade, and willing to prolong her present
state of mind. At length she retired to her
inattrass, ami sunk into tranquil slumber.

CHAP. V.

" — .— — . "While in the rosy vale

.Love breath 'd his infant sighs, from anguish free."

THOMSON.

St. Aubert, sufficiently restored by a
night's repose to pursue his journey, set out
in the morning, with his family and Valan-
court, for Rousillon, which he hoped to reach

• Canctacus.

before night-fall. The scenes through which
they now passed were as wild and romantic
as any (hey had yet observed ; with this dif-
ference, that beauty, every now and then, sof
tened the landscape into smiles. Little woody
recesses appeared among the mountains, co-
vered with blight verdure and flowers ; or a
pastoral valley opened its grassy bosom in the
shade of the cliffs, with flocks and herds loi-
tering along the banks of a rivulet that re-
freshed it with perpetual green. St. Aubert
could not repent the having taken this fati-
guing road, though he was this day, also, fre-
quently obliged to alight, to walk along the
rugged precipice, and to climb the steep and
flinty mountain. The wonderful sublimity
and variety of the prospects repaid him for
all this ; and the enthusiasm with which they
were viewed by his young companions hei- Id-
ened his own, and awakened a remembrance
of all the delightful emotions of his early day?,
when the sublime charms of nature were first
unveiled to him. He found great pleasure
in conversing with Valancourt, and in listen-
ing to his ingenious remarks: the fire and
simplicity of his manners seemed to render
him a characteristic figure in the scenes
around them ; and St. Aubert discovered in
his sentiments the justness and the dignity of
an elevated mind unbiassed by intercourse
with the world. He perceived that his opini-
ons were formed, rather than imbibed— were
more the result of thought, than of learning :
of the world he seemed to know nothing, for
he believed well of all mankind ; and this
opinion gave him the reflected image of his
own heart.

St. Aubert, as he sometimes lingered to
examine the wild plants in his path, often
looked forward with pleasure to Emily and
Valancourt, as they strolled on together — he,
with a countenance of animated delight,
pointing to her attention some grand feature
of the scene ; and she, listening and observing
with a look of tender seriousness that spoke
the elevation of her mind. They appeared!
like two lovers who had never strayed beyond
these their native mountains ; whose situation
hud secluded them from the frivolities of com
nion life ; whose ideas were simple and grand.,
like the landscapes among which they moved
and who knew no other happiness than in the
union of pure and affectionate hearts. St
Aubert smiled, and sighed at the romantir
picture of felicity his fancy drew ; and sighed
again, to think that nature and simplicity
were so little known to the world, as that
their" pleasures were thought romantic.

" The world," said he, pursuing this train
of thought, " ridicules a passion which it sel-
dom feels : its scenes, and its interests, dis-
tract the mind, deprave the taste, corrupt the
heart ; and love cannot exist in a heart that
has lost the meek dignity of innocence, Vir«
tue and taste are nearly the same : for virtus

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

to

is little more than active taste ; and the most
delicate affections of each combine in real
love. How then are we to look for love in
great cities, where selfishness, dissipation,
and insincerity, supply the place of tender-
ness, simplicity, and truth ?"

It was near noon, when the travellers having
arrived at a piece of steep and dangerous
road, alighted to walk. The road wound up
ap ascent that Mas clothed with wood, and,
• nstead of following the carriage, they entered
the refreshing shade. A dewy coolness was
diffused upon the air, which, with the bright
verdure of turf that grew under the trees, the
mingled fragrance of flowers and of balm,
thyme, and lavender, that enriched it, and the
grandeur of the pines, beech, and chesnuts,
that overshadowed them, rendered this a
most delicious retreat. Sometimes, the thick
foliage excluded all view of the country ; at
others, it admitted some partial catches of
the distant scenery, which gave hints to the
imagination to picture landscapes more in-
teresting, more impressive, than any that had
been presented to the eye. The wanderers
often lingered to indulge in these reveries of
fancy.

The pauses of silence, such as had formerly
interrupted the conversations of Valancourt
and Emily, were more frequent to-day than
ever. Valancourt often dropped suddenly
from the most animating vivacity into fits of
deep musing ; and there was, sometimes, an
unaffected melancholy in his smile, which
Emily could not avoid understanding, for her
heart was interested in the sentiment it spoke.

St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and
they continued to saunter under them, follow-
ing, as nearly as they could guess, the direction
of the road, till they perceived that they had
totally lost it. They had continued near the
brow of the precipice, allured by the scenery
it exhibited, while the road wound far away
over the cliff above. Valancourt called loudly
to Michael, but heard no voice, except his
own echoing among the rocks, and his various
efforts to regain the road were equally unsuc-
cessful. While they were thus circum-
stanced, they perceived a shepherd's cabin,
between the boles of the trees at some
distance, and Valancourt bounded on first
to ask assistance. When he reached it, he
saw only two little children at play on the
turf before the door. He looked into the
hut, but no person was there-, and the
eldest of the boys told him that their father
was with his flocks, and their mother was
gone down into the vale, but would be back
presently. As he stood, considering what
was further to be done, on a sudden he heard
Michael's voice roaring forth most manfully
among the cliffs above, till he made their
echoes ring. Valancourt immediately an-
swered the call, and endeavoured to make
his way through the thicket that clothed the

steeps, following the direction of the sound.
After much struggle over brambles and
precipices, he reached Michael, and at length
prevailed with him to be silent, and to listen
to him. The road was at a considerable
distance from the spot where St. Aubert and
Emily were; the carriage could not easily
return to the entrance of the wood; and,
since it would be very fatiguing for St.
Aubert to climb the long and steep road to
the place where it now stood, Valancourt
was anxious to find a more easy ascent, by
the way he had himself passed.

Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily ap-
proached the cottage, and rested themselves
on a rustic bench, fastened between two
pines, which overshadowed it, till Valancourt,
whose steps they had observed, should return.

The eldest of the children desisted from
his play, and stood still to observe the stran-
gers, while the younger continued his little
gambols, and teased his brother to join in
them. St. Aubert looked with pleasure upon
this picture of infantile simplicity, till it
brought to his remembrance his own boys,
whom he had lost about the age of these, ami
their lamented mother ; and he sunk into a
thoughtfulness ; which Emily observing, she
immediately began to sing one of those sim-
ple and lively airs he was so fond of, and
which she knew how to give with the most
captivating sweetness. St. Aubert smiled
on her through his tears, took her hand, and
pressed it affectionately, and then tried to
dissipate the melancholy reflections that lin-
gered in his mind.

While she sung, Valancourt approached,
who was unwilling to interrupt her, and
paused at a little distance to listen. When
she had concluded, he joined the party, and
told them that he had found Michael, as
well as a way by which he thought they could
ascend the cliflto the carriage. He pointed
to the woody steeps above, which St. Aubert
surveyed with an anxious eye. He was
already wearied by his walk, and this ascent
was formidable to him. He thought, however,
it would be less toilsome than the long and
broken road, and he determined to attempt it ;
but Emily, ever watchful of his ease, pro
posing that he should rest, and dine before
they proceeded further, Valancourt went to
the carriage for the refreshments deposited
there.

On his return, he proposed removing a little
higher up the mountain, to where the woods
opened upon a grand and extensive prospect;
and thither they were preparing to go, when
they saw a young woman join the children,
and caress and weep over thein.

The travellers, interested by her distress,
stopped to observe her. She took the youngest
of the children in her arms, and, perceiving
the strangers, hastily dried her tears, and
proceeded to the cottage. St Aubert, on

26

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

inquiring; the occasion of her sorrow, learned
that her husband, who was a shepherd, and
lived here in the summer months to watch over
the flocks he led to feed upon these mountains,
had lost, on the preceding night, his little all.
A gang of gipsies, who had for some time
infested the neighbourhood,had driven away
several of his master's sheep. "Jaques,"
added the shepherd's wife, " had saved a
little money, and had bought a few sheep
with it, and now they must go to his master
for those that are stolen ; and what is worst
than all, his master, when he comes to know
how it is, will trust him no longer with the
care of his flocks, for he is a bard man! and
then what is to become of our children !"

The innocent countenance of the woman,
and the simplicity of her manner in relating
her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to be l; eve
her story ; and Valancourt, convinced that it
was true, asked eagerly what was the value
of the stolen sheep ; on hearing which he
turned away with a look of disappointment.
St. Aubert put some money into her hand,
Emily too gave something from her little
purse, and they walked towards the cliff;
but Valancourt lingered behind, and spoke
to the shepherd's wife, who was now weeping
with gratitude and surprize. He inquired
how much money was yet wanting to replace
the stolen vsheep, and found that it was a
sum very little short of all he had about
him. He was perplexed and distressed.
u This sum, then," said he to himself, " would
make this poor family completely happy —
it is in my power to give it — to make them
completely happy ! But what is to become
of me ? — How shall I contrive to reach home
with the little money that will remain V For
a moment he stood, unwilling to forego the
luxury of raising a family from ruin to hap-
piness, yet considering the difficulties of
'pursuing his journey with so small a sum as
would be left.

While he was in this state of perplexity,
the shepherd himself appeared; his children
ran to meet him ; he took one of them in his
arms, and, with the other clinging to his co.at,
came forward with* a loitering step. His
forlorn and melancholy look determined
Valancourt at once ; he threw down all the
money he had, except a very few louis, and
bounded away after St. Aubert and Emily,
who were proceeding slowly up the steep.
Valancourt had seldom felt his heart so light
as at this moment ; his gay spirits danced
with pleasure ; every object around him
appeared more interesting, or beautiful, than
before. St. Aubert observed the uncommon
vivacity of his countenance : " What has
pleased you so much ?" said he. " O, what a
lovely day ! " replied Valancourt, " how
brightly the sun shines ! how pure is this air !
what enchanting senerv !" " It is indeed
enchanting," said St. Aubert whom early

experience had taught to understand the
nature of Valancourt's present feelings,
" What pity that the wealthy, who can
command such sunshine, should ever pass
their days in gloom— in the cold shade of
selfishness ! For you, my young friend, may
the sun always shine as brightly as at this
moment ! May your own conduct always give
you the sunshine of benevolence and reason
united !"

Valancourt, highly flattered by this com-
pliment, could make no reply but by a smile
of gratitude.

They continued to wind under the woods,
between the grassy knolls of the mountain,
and, as they reached the shady summit which
he had pointed out, the whole party burst
into an exclamation. Behind the spot where
they stood, the rock rose perpendicularly in
a massy wall to a considerable height, and
then branched out into overhanging crags:
Their grey tints were well contrasted by the
blight hues of the plants and wild flowers
that grew in their fractured sides, and were
deepened by the gloom of the pines and cedars
that waved above. The steeps below, over
which the eye passed abruptly to the valley,
we/e fringed with thickets of Alpine shrubs ;
and lower still appeared the tufted tops of
the chesnut woods that clothed their base—
among which peeped forth the shepherd's
cottage just left by the travellers, with its
bluish smoke curling high in the air. On
every side appeared the majestic summit of
the Pyrenees ; some exhibiting tremendous
crags of marble, whose appearance Mas
changing every instant as the varying lights
fell upon their surface; others, still higher,
displaying only snowy points, while their
lower steeps were covered almost invariably
with forests of pine, larch, and oak, that
stretched down to the vale. This was one of
the narrow valleys that open from the Py-
renees into the country of Rousillon, and
whose green pastures and cultivated beauty
form a decided and wonderful contrast to the
romentic grandeur that environs it. Through
a vista of the mountains appeared the low-
lands of Rousillon, tinted with the blue haze
of distance, as they united with the waters of -
the Mediterranean ; where, on a promontory,
which marked the boundary of the shore,
stood a lonely beacon, over which were seen
circling flights of sea-fowl. Beyond appeared,
now and then, a stealing sail, white with
the sun-beam, and whose progress was per-
ceivable by its approach to the light-house.
Sometimes, too, was seen a sail so distant,
that it served only to mark the line of sepa-
ration between the sky and the waves.

On the other side of the valley, imme-
diately opposite to the spot where the tra-
vellers rested, a rocky pass opened toward
Gascony. Here no sign of cultivation ap-
peared. The rocks of granite, that screened

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

27

the glen, rose abruptly from their base, and
stretched their barren points to the clouds,
unvaried with woods, and uncheered even
by a hunter's cabin. Sometimes, indeed, a
gigantic larch threw its long shade over the
precipice, and here and there a cliff reared
on its brow a monumental cross, to tell the
traveller the fate of him who had ventured
xhither before. This spot seemed the very
haunt of banditti ; and Emily, as she looked
down upon it, almost expected to see them
stealing out from some hollow cave to look
for their prey. Soon after an object not
less terrific struck her — a gibbet, standing
on a point of rock near the entrance of the
pass, and immediately over one of the crosses
she had before observed. These were hiero-
glyphics that told a plain and dreadful story.
She forbore to point it out to St. Aubert*,
but it threw a gloom over her spirits, and
made her anxious to hasten forward, that
they might with certainty reach Rousillon
•before night-fall. It was necessary, however,
that St. Aubert should take some refreshment,
and, seating themselves on the short dry
turf, they opened the basket of provisions
while,

" by breezy murmurs cool'a

Broad o'er their heads the verdant cedars wave
And high palmetos lift their graceful shade."

" ■ they draw

Ethereal soul, their drink reviving gales
Profusely breathing from the piney groves,
And vales of fragrance ; there at distance hear
The roaring floods, and cataracts." *

St. Aubert was revived by rest, and by the
serene air of this summit ; and Valancourt
was so charmed with all around, and with
the conversation of his companions, that he
seemed to have forgotten he had any further
to go. Having concluded their simple repast,
they gave a long farewell look to the scene,
and again began to ascend. St. Aubert re-
joiced when he reached the carriage, which
Emily entered with him ; but Valancourt,
willing to take a more extensive view of
the enchanting country, into which they
were about to descend, than he could do from
a carriage, loosened his dogs, and once more
bounded with them along the banks of the
road. He often quitted it for points that
promised a wider prospect; and the slow
pace at which the mutes travelled, allowed
him to overtake them with ease. Whenever
a scene of uncommon magnificence ap-
peared, he hastened to inform St. Aubert,
who, though he was too much tired to walk
himself, sometimes made the chaise wait,
while Emily went to the neighbouring cliff.

It was evening when they descended the
lower Alps, that bind Rousillon, and form
a majestic barrier round that charming
country, leaving it open only on the east
to the Mediterranean. The gay tints of cul-
tivation once more beautified the landscape j
" Thomson.

for the lowlands were coloured with the
richest hues, which a luxuriant climate and
an industrious people can awaken into life.
Groves of orange and lemon perfumed the
air, then ripe fruit glowing among the foliage ;
while, sloping to the plains, extensive vine-
yards spread their treasures. Beyond these,
woods and pastures, and mingled towns and
hamlets, stretched towards the sea, on whose
bright surface gleamed many a distant sail ;
while, over the whole scene, was diffused
the purple glow of evening. This landscape,
with the surrounding Alps, did indeed pre-
sent a perfect picture of the lovely and the
sublime — of " beauty sleeping in the lap of
horror."

The travellers, having reached the plains,
proceeded, between hedges of flowering
myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of
Aries, where they purposed to rest for the
night. They met with simple, but neat oc-
commodation, and Mould have passed a
happy evening, after the toils and delights
of this day, had not the approaching sepa-
ration thrown a gloom over their spirits.
It was St. Aubert's plan to proceed, on
the morrow, to the borders of the Mediter-
ranean, and- travel along its shores into
Languedoc; and Valancourt, since he was
now nearly recovered, and had no longer a
pretence for continuing with his new friends,
resolved to leave them here. St. Aubert,
who was much pleased with him, invited
him to go further, but did not repeat the
invitation ; and Valancourt had resolution
enough to forego the temptation of accept-
ing it, that he might prove himself not un-
worthy of the favour. On the following
morning, therefore, they were to part ; St.
Aubert to pursue his way to Languedoc,
and Valancourt to explore new scenes among
the mountains, on his return home. During
this evening he was often silent and thought-
ful ; St. Aubert's manner towards him was
affectionate, though grave; and Emily was
serious, though she made frequent efforts
to appear cheerful. After one of the most
melancholy evenings they had yet passed to-
gether, they separated for the night.

CHAP* VI.

" I care not, Fortune ! what you me deny ;
You cannot rob me of free nature's grace ;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shows her bright' ning face ;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve :
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave :
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave."

THOMSON
In the morning Valancourt breakfasted
with St. Aubert and Emily, neither of whom
seemed much refreshed by sleep. The lan-
guor of illness still hung over St. Aubert,
and to Emily's fears his disorder appeared

2*

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

to be increasing fast upon him. She watched
his looks with anxious affection, and their
expression was always faithfully reflected in
her own.

At the commencement of their acquaint,
ance, Valancourt had made known his name
and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger
to either, for the family estates, which were
now in the possession of an elder brother of
Valancourt, were little more than twenty
miles distant from La Vallee, and he had
sometimes met the elder Valancourt on
visits in the neighbourhood. Tins know-
ledge had made him more willingly receive
his present companion ; for, though his
countenance and manners would have won
him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who
was very apt to trust to the intelligence of
his own eyes with respect to countenances,
he would not have accepted these as suffi-
cient introductions to that of his daughter.

The breakfast was almost as silent as the
supper of the preceding night; but their
musing was at length interrupted by the
sound of the carriage wheels, which were to
bear away St Aubert and Emily. Valan-
court started from his chair, and went to
the window : it was indeed the carriage, and
he returned to his seat without speaking.
The moment was now come when they must
part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he
hoped he would never pass La Vallee with-
out favouring him with a visit ; and Valan-
court eagerly thanking him, assured him
that he never would; as he said which he
looked timidly at Emily, who tried to smile
away the seriousness of her spirits. They
passed a few minutes in interesting conver-
sation, and St. Aubert then led the way to
the carriage, Emily and Valancourt follow-
ing in silence. The latter lingered at the
door several minutes after they were seated,
and none of the party seemed to have cou-
rage enough to say — Farewell ! At length,
St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy word,
which Emily passed to Valancourt, who
returned it with a dejected smile, and the
carriage drove on.

The travellers remained, for some time,
in a state of tranquil pensiveness, which is
not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it
by observing, " This is a very promising
young man ; it is many years since I have
been so much pleased with any person, on
so short an acquaintance. He brings back
to my memory the days of my youth, when
every scene was nevvand delightful!" St.
Aubert sighed and sunk again into a reverie ;
and, as Emily looked back upon the road
they had passed, Valancourt was seen, at
the door of the little inn, following them
with his eyes. He perceived her, and waved
his hand; and she returned the adieu, till
the winding road shut her from his sight.
" I remember when 1 was about his age,"

resumed St. Aubert, "and I thought and
felt exactly as he does. The world was
opening upon me then— now, it is closing."

"My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,**
said Emily in a trembling voice ; " I hope
you may have many, many years to live—
for your own sake— for my sake."

" Ah, my Emily !" replied St. Aubert, " for
thy sake ! Well ; I hope it is so." He wiped
away a tear that was stealing down his
cheek, threw a smile upon his countenance,
and said in a cheering voice, " There is
something in the ardour and ingenuousness
of youth, which is particularly pleasing to
the contemplation of an old man, if his
feelings have not been entirely corroded by
the world. It is cheering and reviving, like
the view of spring to a sick person; his
mind catches somewhat of the spirit of the
season, and his eyes are lighted up with the
transient sunshine. Valancourt is this spring
to me."

Emily, who pressed her father's hand
affectionately, had never before listened with
so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed;
no, not even when he had bestowed them on
herself.

They travelled on, among vineyards,
woods, and pastures, delighted with the
romantic beauty of the landscape, which
was bounded, on one side, by the giandeur
of the Pyrenees, and, on the other, by the
ocean ; and, soon after noon, they reached
the town of Colioure, situated on the Medi-
terranean. Here they dined, and rested till
towards the cool of day, when they pursued
their way along the snores — those enchant-
ing shores, which extend to Languedoc.
Emily gazed with enthusiasm on the vast-
ness of the sea, its surface varying as the
lights and shadows fell, and on its woody
banks mellowed with autumnal tints.

St. Aubert was impatient to reach Per-
pigncn, where he expected letters from
M. Quesnel ; and it was the expectation of
these letters, that had induced him to leave
Colioure, for his feeble frame had required
immediate rest. After travelling a few
miles, he fell asleep ; and Emily, who had
put two or three books into the carriage on
leaving La Vallee, had now the leisure for
looking into them. She sought for one, in
which Valancourt had been reading the day
before, and hoped for the pleasure of retra-
cing a page, over which the eyes of a belo-
ved friend had lately passed, of dwelling on
the passages which he had admired, and of
permitting them to speak to her in the lan-
guage of his own mind, and to bring him-
self to her presence. Ou searching for the
book, she could find it no where, but, in its
stead, perceived a volume of Petrarch's
poems, that had belonged to Valancourt,
whose name was written in it, and from
which he had frequently read passages fo

THE MYSTERIES OF.UDOLPHO.

a»

hey, with all the pathetic expression that
characterised the feelings of the author.
She h^itated in believing, what would have
been sufficiently apparent to almost any
other person, that he had purposely left this
book instead of the one she had lost, and
that love had prompted the exchange ; but,
having opened it with impatient pleasure,
and observed the lines of his peucil drawn
along the various passages he had -read
aloud, and under others more descriptive
of delicate tenderness than he had dared to
trust his voice with, the conviction came,
at length, to her mind. For some moments
she was conscious only of being beloved ;
then, a recollection of all the variations of
tone and countenance with which he had
recited these sonnets, and of the soul which
spoke in their expression, pressed to her
memory, and she wept over the memorial
of his affection.

They arrived at Perpignan soon after sun-
set, where St. Aubert found, as he had ex-
pected, letters from M. Quesnel, the con-
tents of which so evidently and grievously
affected him, that Emily was alarmed, and
pressed him, as far as her delicacy would
permit, to disclose the occasion of his con-
cern; but he answered her only by tears,
and immediately began to talk on other
topics. Emily, though she forbore to press
the one most interesting to her, was greatly
affected by her father's manner, and passed
a night of sleepless solicitude.

In the morning they pursued their jour-
ney along the coast towards Leucate, ano-
ther town on the Mediterranean, situated
on the borders of Languedoc and Rousil-
lon. On the way, Emily renewed the sub-
ject of the preceding night, and appeared
so deeply affected by St. Aubert's silence
and dejection, that he relaxed from his
reserve. " I was unwilling, my dear
Emily," said he, " to throw a cloud over
the pleasure you receive from these scenes,
and meant, therefore, to conceal, for the
present, some circumstances with which,
however, you must at length have been
made acquainted. But your anxiety has
defeated my purpose; you suffer, as much
from this, perhaps, as you will do from a
knowledge of the facts I have to relate.
M. Quesners visit proved an unhappy one
to me ; he came to tell me a part of the
news he has now confirmed. You may have
heard me mention a M. Motteville, of Paris,
but you did not know that the chief of my
personal property was invested in his hands.
I had great confidence in him, and I am yet
willing to believe that he is not wholly un-
worthy of my esteem. A variety of circum-
stances have concurred to ruin him, and—
i am ruined with him."

St. Aubert paused, to conceal his emotion.

ft The letters I have just received from

M. Quesnel," resumed he, (struggling to
speak with firmness, " enclosed others from
Motteville, which confirmed alll dreaded."

" Must we then quit La Vallee ?" said
Emily, after a long pause of silence. " That
is yet uncertain," replied St. Aubert ; " it
will depend upon the compromise Motte-
ville is able to make with his creditors.
My income, you know, was never large,
and now it will be reduced to little indeed 1
It is for you, Emily, for you, my child, that
1 am most afflicted." His last words fal-
tered; Emily smiled tenderly upon him
through her tears, and then, endeavouring
to overcome heremotion, " My dear father,"
said she, " do not grieve for me, or for
yourself; we may yet be happy ; if La
Vallee remains for us, we must be happy.
We will retain only one servant, and you
shall scarcely perceive the change in your
income; be comforted, my dear sir; we
shall not feel the want of those luxuries
which others value so highly, since we never
had a taste for them ; and poverty cannot
deprive us of many consolations. It cannot
rob us of the affection we have for each
other, or degrade us in our own opinion,
or in that of any person whose opinion we
ought to value."

St. Aubert concealed his face with his
handkerchief, and was unable to speak;
but Emily continued to urge to her father
the truths which himself had impressed upon
her mind.

" Besides, my dear sir, poverty cannot
deprive us of intellectual delights. It can-
not deprive you of the comfort of affording
me examples of fortitude and benevolence,
nor me of the delight of consoling a beloved
parent. It cannot deaden our taste for the
grand and the beautiful, nor deny us the
means of indulging it ; for the scenes of
nature — those sublime spectacles, so infi
nitely superior to all artificial luxuries ! are
"open for the enjoyment of the poor, as well
as of the rich. Of what then have we to
complain, so long as we are not in want of
necessaries ? Pleasures, such as wealth
cannot buy, will still be our's. We retain
then the sublime luxuries of nature, and
lose only the frivolous ones of art.'V

St. Aubert could not reply; he caught
Emily to his bosom, their tears flowed toge-
ther, but — they were not tears of sorrow.
After this language of the heart, all other
would have beeu feeble, and they remained
silent for some time. Then St. Aubert con-
versed as before; for if his mind had not
recovered its natural tranquillity, it at least
assumed the appearance of it.

They reached the romantic town of Leu-
cate early in the day, but St. Aubert was
weary, and they determined to pass the night
there. In the evening, he exerted himself so
far as to walk with his daughter to view the

30

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

environs that overlook the lake of Leucate,
the Mediterranean, part of Rousilion, with
the Pyrenees, and a wide extent of the luxu-
riant province of Languedoc, now blushing
with the ripened vintage, which the peasants
were beginning to gather. St. Aubert and
Emily saw the busy groups, caught the joy-
ous song that was wafted on the breeze, and
anticipated, with apparent pleasure, their
next day's journey over this gay region. He
designed, however, still to wind along the
sea-shore. To return home immediately was
partly his wish, but from this he was with-
held by a desire to lengthen the pleasure
which the journey gave his daughter, and to
try the effect of the sea air on his own dis-
order.

On the following day, therefore, they re-
commenced their journey through Langue-
doc, winding the shores of the Mediterra-
nean 5 the Pyrenees still forming the mag-
nificent back-ground of their prospects,
while on their right was the ocean, and, on
their left, wide extended plains melting into
the blue horizon. St. Aubert was pleased,
and conversed much with Emily j yet his
cheerfulness was sometimes artificial, and
sometimes a shade of melancholy would steal
upon his countenance, and betray him.
This was soon chased away by Emily's
smile 5 who smiled, however, with an aching*
heart, for she saw that his misfortunes preyed
upon his mind, and upon his enfeebled
frame.

It was evening when they reached a small
village of Upper Languedoc, where they
meant to pass the night, but the place could
not afford them beds j for here, too, it was
the time of the vintage ; and they were
obliged to proceed to the next post. The
languor of illness and of fatigue which re
turned upon St. Aubert, required immediate
repose, and the evening was now far ad-
vanced j but from necessity there was no
appeal, and he ordered Michael to proceed.

The rich plains of Languedoc, which ex-
hibited all the glories of the vintage, with
the gaieties of a French festival, no longer
awakened St. Aubert to pleasure, whose
condition formed a mournful contrast to the
hilarity and youthful beauty which sur-
rounded him. As his languid eyes moved
over the scene, he considered, that they
would soon, perhaps, be closed for ever on
this world. "Those distant and sublime
mountains," said he secretly, as he gazed
on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretched
towards the west, " these luxuriant plains,
this blue vault, the cheerful light of day,
will be shut from my eyes ! The song of
the peasant, the cheering voice of man-
will no longer sound for me !"

The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to
read what passed in the mind of her father,
and she fixed them on his face, with an

expression of such tender pity, as recalled
his thoughts from every desultory object of
regret, and he remembered only, that he
must leave his daughter without protection.
This reflection changed regret to agony ;
he sighed deeply, and remained silent, while
she seemed to understand that sigh, for
she pressed his hand affectionately, and then
turned to the window to conceal her tears.
The' sun now threw a last gleam on the
waves of the Mediterranean, and the gloom
of twilight spread fast over the scene, till
only a melancholy ray appeared on the
western horizon, marking the point where
the sun had set amid the vapours of an
autumnal evening. A cool breeze now came
from the shore, and Emily let down the
glass ; but the air which was refreshing to
health, was as chilling to sickness, and St.
Aubert desired that the window might be
drawn up. Increasing illness made him now
more anxious than ever to finish the day's
journey, and he stopped the muleteer to
inquire how far they had yet to go to the
next post. He replied, nine miles. " I feel
I am unable to proceed much further," said
St. Aubert -, " inquire, as you go, if there
is any house on the road that would ac-
commodate us for the night." He sunk
back into the carriage, and Michael, crack-
ing his whip in the air, set off, and continued
on the full gallop, till St. Aubert, almost
fainting, called to him to stop. Emily looked
anxiously from the window, and saw a pea-
sant walking at some little distance on the
road, fdr whom they waited till he came up,
when he was asked, if there was any house in
the neighbourhood that accommodated travel-
lers. He replied that he knew of none.
" There is a chateau, indeed, among those
woods on the right, " added he, " but I believe
it receives nobody, and I cannot show you the
way, for I am almost a stranger here." St.
Aubert was going to ask him some further
question concerning the chateau, but the man
abruptlypassedon. Aftersome consideration,
he ordered Michael to proceed slowly to the
woods. Every moment now deepened the
twilight and increased the difficulty of
finding the road. Another peasant soon aftei
passed. " Which is the way to the chateau in
the woods ?" cried Michael.

" The chateau in the woods !" exclaimed the
peasant — "Do you mean that with the turret,
yonder?"

" I don't know as for the turret, as you
call it," said Michael, " I mean that white
piece of a building that we see at a distance
there, among the trees."

" Yes, that is the turret •, why, who are
you, that you are going thither ?" said the
man with surprize.

St. Aubert, on hearing this odd question,
and observing the peculiar tone in which it
was delivered, looked out from the carriage.

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

31

* We are travellers," said he, who are in
search of a house of accommodation for the
night ; is there any hereabout ?"

" None, Monsieur, unless you have a
mind to try your luck yonder," replied the
peasant, pointing to the woods; " but I
would not advise you to go there."

" To whom does the chateau belong ?"

" I scarcely know myself, Monsieur."

" It is uninhabited, then?" " No, not
uninhabited-, the steward and housekeeper
are there, I believe."

On hearing this, St. Aubert determined to
proceed to the chateau, and risk the refusal
of being accommodated for the night ; he
therefore desired the countryman would
show Michael the way, and bade him ex-
pect reward for his trouble. The man was
for a moment silent, and then said, that he
was going on other business, but that the
road could not be missed, if they went up
an avenue to the right, to which he pointed.
St. Aubert was going to speak, but the
peasant wished him good night, and walk-
ed on.

The carriage now moved towards the
avenue, which was guarded by a gate; and
Michael having dismounted to open it, they
entered between rows of ancient oak and
chesnut, whose intermingled branches form-
ed a lofty arch above. There was something
so gloomy and desolate in the appearance of
this avenue, and its lonely silence, that
Emily almost shuddered as she passed along;
and, recollecting the manner in which the
peasant had mentioned the chateau, she
gave a mysterious meaning to his words,
such as she had not suspected when he uttered
them. These apprehensions, however, she
tried to check, considering that they were
probably the effect of a melancholy imagi-
nation, which her father's situation, and a
consideration of her own circumstances, had
made sensible to every impression.

They passed slowly on, for they were now
almost in darkness, which, together with
the unevenness of the ground, and the fre-
quent roots of old trees, that shot up above
the soil, made it necessary to proceed with
caution. On a sudden Michael stopped the
carriage; and, as St. Aubert looked from the
window to inquire the cause, he perceived a
figure at some distance moving up the ave-
nue. The dusk would not permit him to
distinguish what it was, but he bade Michael
go on.

" This seems a strange wild place," said
Michael: "there is no house hereabout;
don't your Honour think we had better turn
back.'"

" Go a little further, and if we see no
house then, we will return to the road,"
replied St. Aubert.

Michael proceeded with reluctance ; and the
extreme slowness of his pace made St. Aubert

look again from the window to hasten him,
when again he saw the same figure. He was
somewhat startled ; probably the gloominess
of the spot made him more liable to alarm
than usual. However this might be, he
now stopped Michael, and bade him call to
the person in the avenue.

" Please your Honour, he may be a rob-
ber," said Michael. "It does not please
me," replied St. Aubert, who could not for-
bear smiling at the simplicity of his phrase ;
" and we will therefore return to the road, for
I see no probability of meeting here with
what we seek."

Michael turned about immediately, and
was retracing his way with alacrity, when a
voice was heard from among the trees on
the left. It was not the voice of command,
or distress ; but a deep hollow tone, which
seemed to be scarcely human. The man
whipped his mules till they went as fast as
possible, regardless of the darkness, the
broken ground, and the necks of the whole
party ; nor once stopped till he reached the
gate which opened from the avenue into the
high road, where he went into a more mode-
rate pace.

" I am very ill," said St. Aubert, taking
his daughter's hand. " You are worse, then,
sir !" said Emily, extremely alarmed by his
manner : " you are worse, and here is no
assistance ! Good God ! What is to be done !"
He leaned his head on her shoulder, while
she endeavoured to support him with her
arm ; and Michael was again ordered to stop.
When the rattling of the wheels had ceased,
music was heard on the air: it was to Emily
the voice of Hope: "Oh! we are near some
human habitation !" said she : " help may
soon be had."

She listened anxiously ; the sounds were
distant, and seemed to come from a remote
part of the woods that bordered the road ;
and, as she looked towards the spot whence
they issued, she perceived in the faint moon-
light something like a chateau. It was dif-
ficult, however, to reach this: St. Aubert
was now too ill to bear the motion of the
carriage ; Michael could not quit his mules ;
and Emily, who still supported her father,
feared to leave him, and also feared to ven
ture alone to such a distance, she knew not
whither, or to whom. Something, howevei,
it was necessary to determine upon imme-
diately ; St. Aubert, therefore, told Michael
to proceed slowly ; but they had not gone
far, when he fainted, and the carriage was
again stopped. He lay quite senseless.
"My dear, dear father!" cried Emily in
great agony, and who began to fear that
he was dying ; " speak, if it is only one
word, to let me hear the sound of your
voice !" But no voice spoke in reply. In
an agony of terror she bade Michael bring
water from a rivulet, that flowed along the

35

THE MYSTTERIES OF UDOLPHO

road ; and, having received tome in the man's
hat, with trembling hands she sprinkled it
over her father's face, which, as the moon's
rays now fell npon it, seemed to bear the
impression of death. Every emotion of selfish
fear now gave way to a stronger influence ;
and, committing St. Aubert to the care of
Michael, who refused to go far from his
mules, she stepped from the carriage in
search of the chateau she had seen at a
distance. It was a still moon-light night,
and the music, which yet sounded on the
air, directed her steps from the high road
up a shadowy lane that led to the woods.
Her mind was for some time so entirely oc-
cupied by anxiety and terror for her father,
that she felt none for herself, till the deep-
ening gloom of the over-hanging foliage
which now wholly excluded the moon-light,
and the wildness of the place, recalled her
to a sense of her adventurous situation. The
music had ceased, and she had no guide
but chance. For a moment she paused in
terrified perplexity ; till a sense of her father's
condition again overcoming every consi-
deration for herself, she proceeded. The
iane terminated in the woods; but she looked
round in vain for a house or a human being,
and as vainly listened for a sound to guide
her. She hurried on, however, not knowing
whither, avoiding the recesses of the woods,
and endeavouring to keep along their mar-
gin, till a rude kind of avenue, which opened
upon a moon-light spot, arrested her atten-
tion. The wildness of this avenue brought
to her recollection the one leading to the
turreted chateau, and she was inclined to
believe that this was a part of the same do-
main, and probably led to the same point.
While she hesitated whether to follow it or
not, a sound of many voices in loud merri-
ment burst upon her ear : it seemed not the
laugh of cheerfulness, but of riot : and she
stood appalled. While she paused, she heard
a distant voice calling from the way she
had come, and, not doubting but it was that
of Michael, her first impulse was to hasten
back; but a second thought changed her
purpose — she believed that nothing less than
the last extremity could have prevailed with
Michael to quit his mules; and, fearing
that her father was now dying, she rushed
brward, with a feeble hope of obtaining
ssistance from the people in the woods.
ler heart beat with fearful expectation as
vhe drew near the spot whence the voices
issued, and she often startled when her steps
rlisturbed the fallen leaves. The sounds led
her towards the moon-light glade she had
before noticed; at a little distance from
which she stopped, and saw, between the
boles of the trees, a small circular level of
green turf, surrounded by the woods, on
which appeared a group of figures. On
A: i ving nearer, she distinguished these, by

their dress, to be peasants, and perceived
several cottages scattered round the edge of
the woods, which waved loftily over this spot.
While she gazed, and endeavoured toi over-
come the apprehensions that withheld her
steps, several peasant girls came out of a
cottage ; music instantly struck up, and the
dance began. It was the joyous music of
the vintage — the same she had before heard
upon the air. Her heart, occupied with
terror for her father, could not feel the con-
trast which this gay scene offered to her own
distress. She stepped hastily forward, to-
wards a group of elder persons who were
seated at the door of a cottage, and having
explained her situation, entreated their as-
sistance. Several of them rose with alacrity,
and, oft ding any service in their power,
followed Emily, who seemed to move on
the wind, as fast as they could towards the
road.

When she reached the carriage, she found St.
Aubert restored to animation. On the recovery
of his senses, having heard from Michael
whither his daughter was gone, anxiety for
her overcame every regard lor himself, and he
had sent him in search of her. He was,
however, still languid, and, perceiving him-
self unable to travel further, he renewed his
inquiries for an inn, and concerning the cha-
teau in the woods. " The chateau cannot
accommodate you, sir," said a venerable pea-
sant who had followed Emily from the woods:
" it is scarcely inhabited ; but if you will do
me the honour to visit my cottage, you shall
be welcome to the best bed it affords."

St. Aubert was himself a Frenchman ; he,
therefore, was not surprised at French cour-
tesy ; but, ill as he was, he felt the value of
the offer enhanced by the manner which ac-
companied it. He had too much delicacy to
apologise, or to appear to hesitate about
availing himself of the peasant's hospitality;
but immediately accepted it, with the same
frankness with which it was offered.

The carriage again moved slowly on;
Michael following the peasants up the lane
which Emily had just quitted, till they came
to the moon-light glade. St. Aubert'*
spirits were so far restored by the courtesy
of his host and the near prospect of repose,
that he looked with a sweet complacency
upon the moon-light scene surrounded by th *
shadowy woods, through which here and
there, an opening admitted the streaming
splendour, discovering a cottage or a spark-
ling rivulet. He listened, with no painful
emotion, to the merry notes of the guitar
and tamborine; and, though tears came to
his eyes when he saw the debonnaire dance
of the peasants, they were not merely tear*
of mournful regret. With Emily it was
otherwise: immediate terror for her fathei
had now subsided into a gentle melancholy
which every note of joy, by awakening com-
parison, served to heighten.

THE MYSTERIES OF lirOLPHO.

33

Tlve dance ceased on the approach of the
carriage', which was a phenomenon in these
sequestered woods, and the peasantry flocked
round it with eager curiosity. On learning
that it brought a sick stranger, several girls
ran across the turf, and returned with wine,
and baskets of grapes, which they presented
to the travellers — each with kind contention
pressing for a preference.

At length the carriage stopped at n neat
cottage : and his venerable conductor having
assisted St. Aubert to alight, led him and
Emily to a small inner room, illumined only
by moonbeams, which the open casement ad-
mitted. St. Aubert, rejoicing in rest, seated
himself in an arm-chair, and his senses were
refreshed by the cool and balmy air, that
lightly waved the embowering honeysuckles,
and wafted their sweet breath into the apart-
ment. His host, who was called La Voisin,
quitted the room, but soon returned with
fruits, cream, and all the pastoral luxury his
cottage afforded ; having set down which,
with a smile of unfeigned welcome, he re-
tired behind the chair of his guest. St. Au-
bert insisted on his taking a seat at the
table ; and, when the fruit had allayed the
fever of his palate, and he found himself
somewhat revived, he began to converse
with his host; who communicated several
particulars concerning himself and his family,
which were interesting, because they were
spoken from the heart, and delineated a pic-
ture of the sweet courtesies of family kindness.
Emily sat by her father, holding his hand ;
and while she listened to the old man, her
heart swelled with the affectionate sym-
pathy he described, and her tears fell to the
mournful consideration that death would pro-
bably soon deprive her of the dearest bles-
sing she then possessed. The soft moonlight of
an autumnal evening, and the distant music,
which now sounded a plaintive strain, aided
the melancholy of her mind. The old man
continued to talk of his family, and St. Au-
bert remained silent. " I have only one
daughter living," said La Voisin ; "but she
is happily married, and is every thing to me.
When I lost my wife," he added with a sigh,
" I came to live with Agnes and her family :
she has several children, who are all dancing
on the green yonder, as merry as grass-
hoppers— and long may they be so ! I hope
to die among them, monsieur. I am old
now, and cannot expect to live long; but
there is some comfort in dying surrounded
by one's children."

" My good friend," said St. Aubert, while
his voice trembled, " I hope you will long
live surrounded by them."

" Ah, sir ! at my age I must not expect
that," replied the old man, and he paused.
" I can scarcely wish it," he resumed ; " for
1 trust, that whenever I die, I shall go to
heaven, where my poor wife is gone before

me. I can sometimes almost fancy 1 Ftc
her, of a still moon-light night, walking
among these shades she loved so well. Do
you believe, monsieur, that we shall be
permitted to revisit the earth, after we hare
quitted the body ?"

Emily could no longer stifle the anguish
of her heart ; her tears fell fast upon her
father's hand, which she yet held. He
made an effort to speak, and at length
said, in a low voice, " I hope we shall be
permitted to look down on those we have left
on the earth ; but I can only hopeit : futurity
is much veiled from our eyes, and faith and
hope are our only guides concerning it.
We are not enjoined to believe that disem-
bodied spirits watch over the friends they
have loved, but we may innocently hope it.
It is a hope which I will never resign,"
continued he, while he wiped the tears from
his daughter's eyes : it will sweeten the
bitter moments of death !" Tears fell slowly
on his cheeks ; La Voisin wept too ; and
there was a pause of silence. Then La
Voisin, renewing the subject, said, " But
you believe, sir, that we shall meet, in an-
other world, the relations we have loved in
this ? I must believe this." " Then do
believe it," replied St. Aubert : severe, m
deed, would be the pangs of separation, if
we believed it to be eternal. Look up, iny
dear Emily, we shall meet again!" Ke
lifted his eyes towards heaven, and a gleam
of moon-light, which fell upon his counte
nance, discovered peace and resignation
stealing on the lines of sorrow.

La Voisin felt that he had pursued the
subject too far, and he dropped it, saying,
" We are in darkness ; I forgot to bring a
light."

« No," said St. Aubert, " this is a light
I love. Sit down, my good friend. Emily,
my love, I find myself better than I have
been all day : this air refreshes me. I can
enjoy this tranquil hour, and that music,
which floats so sweetly at a distance. Ltt
me see you smile. Who touches that guitar
so tastefully ? Are there two instruments,
or is it an echo I hear ?"

w It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy. That
guitar is often heard at night, when all is
still, but nobody knows who touches it ;
and it is sometimes accompanied by a voice
so sweet, and so sad, that one would almost
think the woods were haunted." "They
certainly are haunted," said St. Aubert,
with a smile ; " but I believe it is by mor-
tals." " I have sometimes heard it at mid
night, when I could not sleep," rejoined La
Voisin, not seeming to notice this remark,
w almost under my window ; and I nerei
heard any music like it : it has often made
me think of my poor wife till I cried. J
have sometimes got up to the window, to
look if I could see any body j but as soon
D

i

34

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

us I opened the casement, all was hushed,
and no body to be seen ; and I have listened,
and listened, till I have been so timorous,
that even the trembling of the leaves in the
breeze has made me start. They say it
often comes to warn people of their death ;
put I have heard it these many years, and
outlived the warning."

Emily, though she smiled at the mention
of this ridiculous superstition, could not,
in the present tone of her spirits, wholly
resist its contagion.

"Well, but, my good friend," said St.
Aubert, " has nobody had courage to follow
the sounds ? If they had, they would pro-
bably have discovered who is the musician."
" Yes, sir, they have followed them some
way into the woods ; but the music has still
retreated, and seemed as distant as ever ;
and the people have at last been afraid of
being led into harm, and would go no fur-
ther. It is very seldom that I have heard
these sounds so early in the evening. They
usually come about midnight, when that
bright planet, which is rising above the
turret yonder, sets below the woods on the
left."

« What turret ?" asked St. Aubert with
quickness ; " I see none."

" Your pardon, monsieur ; you do see
one indeed, for the moon shines full upon
it— up the avenue yonder, a long way off :
the chateau it belongs to is hid among the
trees."

" Yes, my dear sir," said Emily, point-
ing j " don't you see something glitter
above the dark woods ? It is a fane, I
fancy, which the rays fall upon."

" O yes ; I see what you mean. And
whom does the chateau belong to !"

" The Marquis deVilleroi was its owner,"
replied La Voisin, emphatically.

" Ah!" said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh,
" are we then so near Le Blanc ?" He ap-
peared much agitated.

" It used to be the Marquis's favourite
residence," resumed La Voisin, " but he
took a dislike to the place, and has not
been there for many years. We have heard
lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen
into other hands." St. Aubert, who had
sat in deep musing, was roused by the last
words. " Dead !" he exclaimed ; " good
God! when did he die?"

" He is reported to have died about five
weeks since," replied La Voisin. "Did you
know the Marquis, sir ?"

" This is very extraordinary," said St.
Aubert, without attending to the question.
" Why is it so, my dear sir ?" said Emily,
in a voice of timid curiosity. He made no
reply, but sunk again into a reverie ; and
in a few moments, when he seemed to have
recovered himself, asked who had succeeded
to the estates. " I have forgot his title,
monsieur," said La Voisin •, " but my Lord

resides at Paris chiefly; I hear no talk of
his coming hither."

" The chateau is shut up then, still ?"

" Why, little better, sir ; the old house-
keeper, and her husband the steward, have
the care of it, but they live generally in a
cottage hard by."

" The chateau is spacious," I suppose ?"
said Emily, " and must be desolate for the
residence of only two persons."

" Desolate enough, mademoiselle," replied
La Voisin : " I would not pass one night in \
the chateau for the value of the whole
domain."

" What is that ? said St. Aubert, roused
again from thoughtfulness. As his host
repeated his last sentence, a groan escaped
from St. Aubert, and then, as if anxious to
prevent it from being noticed, he hastily
asked La Voisin how long he had lived in
this neighbourhood. " Almost from my
childhood, sir," replied his host.

" You remember the late Marchioness,
then ?" said St. Aubert in an altered voice.

" Ah, monsieur! — that I do, well. There
are many, beside me, who remember her."

" Yes," said St. Aubert — " and I am one
of those."

" Alas, sir ! you remember, then, a most
beautiful and excellent lady. She deserved
a better fate."

Tears stood in St. Aubert's eyes. —
" Enough," said he, in a voice almost
stifled by the violence of his emotions—" it
is enough, my friend."

Emily, though extremely surprised by
her father's manner, forebore to express her
feelings by any question. La Voisin began
to apologise, but St. Aubert interrupted
him : " Apology is quite unnecessary," said
he; let us change the topic. You were
speaking of the music we just now heard."
" I was, monsieur — but hark! — it comes
again ; listen to that voice !" They were
all silent ;

" At last a soft and solemn-breathing' sound
Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes,
And stole upon the air; that even Silence
Was took ere she was' ware, and wish'd she might
Deny her nature, and be never more
Still, to be so displac'd."*

In a few moments the voice died into air,
and the instrument which had been heard
before, sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert
now observed, that it produced a tone much
more full and melodious than that of a guitar,
and still more melancholy and soft than the
lute. They continued to listen, but the
sounds returned no more. "This is strange!"
said St. Aubert, at length interrupting the
silence. " Very strange!" said Emily.
" It is so," rejoined La Voisin ; and they
were again silent.

After a long pause, " It is now about
eighteen years since I first heard that music,
• Milton,

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOIPHO.

$5

said La Voisin ; u I remember it was on a
fine summer's night, much like this, but
later, that I was walking' in the woods, and
alone. I remember too, that my spirits
were very low, for one of my boys was ill,
and we feared we should lose him. I had
been watching at his bed-side all the even-
ing, while his mother slept ; for she had sat
up with him the night before. I had been
watching, and went out for a little fresh
air : the day had been very sultry. As I
walked under the shades, and mused, I
heard music at a distance, and thought it
was Claude playing upon his flute, as he
often did of a fine evening, at the cottage
door. But when I came to a place where
the trees opened (I shall never forget it !),
and stood looking up at the north lights,
which shot up the heaven to a great height,
I heard all of a sudden such sounds! — they
came so as I cannot describe. It was like
the music of angels, and I looked up again,
almost expecting to see them in the sky.
When I came home, I told what I had
iieard, but they laughed at me, and said it
must be some of the shepherds playing on
their pipes, and I could not persuade them
to the contrary. A few nights after, how-
ever, my wife herself heard the same sounds,
and was as much surprised as I was j and
Father Denis frightened her sadly, by say-
ing that it was music come to warn her
of her child's death, and that music often
came to houses where there was a dying
person."

Emily, on hearing this, shrunk with a
superstitious dread entirely new to her, and
could scarcely conceal her agitation from
St. Aubert.

" But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of
Father Denis."

« Father Denis !" said St. Aubert, who
had listened to * narrative old age' with
patient attention- — " Are we near a convent,
then?"

" Yes, sir, the convent of St. Clair stands
at no great distance, on the sea-shore
yonder."

" Ah!" said St. Aubert, as if struck with
some sudden remembrance, " the convent
of St. Clair !" Emily observed the clouds
of grief,- mingled with a faint expression of
horror, gathering on his brow ; his counte-
nance became fixed, and, touched as it now
was by the silver whiteness of the moon-
light, he resembled one of those marble
statues of a monument, which seem to
bend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes of
the dead, shewn

by the blunted light

That the dim moon thro1 painted casements lends.'*-
" But, my dear sir," said Emily, anxious
to dissipate his thoitghts, " you forget that
• Ti»e Emigrants.

repose is necessary to you. If our kind h<, i
will give me leave, I will prepare your be*',
for I know how you like it to be made "
St. Aubert, recollecting himself, and smi-
ling affectionately, desired she would not
add to her fatigue by that attention ; and
La Voisin, whose consideration for his guest
had been suspended by the interests which
his own narrative had recalled, now started
from his seat, and apologising for not hav-
ing called Agnes from the green, hurried
out of the room.

In a few moments he returned with his
daughter, a young woman of a pleasing
countenance j and Emily learned from her,
what she had not before suspected, that, for
their accommodation, it was necessary part
of La Voisin's family should leave their
beds : she lamented this circumstance, but
Agnes, by her reply, fully proved that she
inherited at least a share of her father's
courteous hospitality. It was settled, that
some of her children and Michael should
sleep in the neighbouring cottage.

" If I am better to-morrow, my dear,"
said St. Aubert, when Emily returned to
him, " I mean to set out at an early hour,
that we may rest during the heat of the
day, and will travel towards home. In the
present state of my health and spirits, I
cannot look on a longer journey with plea-
sure, and I am also very anxious to reach
LaVallee." Emily, though she also desired
to return, was grieved at her father's sad-
deu wish to do so, which she thought indi-
cated a greater degree of indisposition than
he would acknowledge. St. Aubert now
retired to rest, and Emily to her little
chamber, but not to immediate repose :
her thoughts returned to the late conversa-
tion, concerning the state of departed spi-
ritf — a suDJect at this time particularly
affecting to her, when she had every reason
to believe that her dear father would ere
long be numbered with them. She leaned
pensively on the little open casement, and
in deep thought fixed her eyes on the hea^
ven, whose blue unclouded concave was
studded thick with stars, the worlds, per-
haps, of spirits unsphered of mortal mould.
As her eyes wandered along the boundless
ether, her thoughts rose, as before, towards
the sublimity of the Deity, and to the con-
templation of futurity. No busy note of
this world interrupted the course of her
mind 5 the merry dance had ceased, and
every cottager had retired to his home. The
still air seemed scarcely to breathe upon the
woods, and, now and then, the distant sound
of a solitary sheep-bell, or of a closing
casement, was all that broke on silence. At
length even this hint of human being was
heard no more. Elevated and enwrapt,
while her eyes were often wet with tears
of sublime devotion and solemn au-e, she

fef>

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

continued at the casement till the gloom of
midnight hung over the earth, and the
planet, which La Voisin had pointed out,
sunk below the woods. She then recol-
lected what he had said concerning this
planet, and the mysterious music ; and, as
she lingered at the window, half hoping and
half fearing that it would return, her mind
was led to the remembrance of the extreme
emotion her father had shewn on mention of
the Marquis La Villeroi's death, and of the
fate of the Marchioness, and she felt strongly
interested concerning the remote cause of
this emotion. Her surprise and curiosity
were indeed the greater, because she did not
recollect ever to have heard him mention
the name of Villeroi.

No music, however, stole on the silence
of the night; and Emily, perceiving the late-
ness of the hour, returned to a sense of
fatigue, remembered that she was to rise
early in the morning, and withdrew from
the window to repose.

CHAP. VII.

Let those deplore their doom,

Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn
But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb,
Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn
Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return 1

Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed 1

goon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead."

BEATTIE,

Emily, called, as she had requested, at
an early hour, awoke little refreshed by
sleep, for uneasy dreams had pursued her,
and marred the kindest blessing of the un
happy. But when she opened her casement,
looked out upon the woods, bright with the
morning sun, and inspired the pure air, her
mind was soothed. The scene was filled
with that cheering freshness, which seems to
breathe the very spirit of health, and she
heard only sweet and picturesque sounds,
if such an expression may be allowed;— the
matin-bell of a distant convent, the faint
murmur of the sea waves, the song of birds,
and the far-off low of cattle, which she saw
coming slowly on between the trunks of the
trees. Struck with the circumstances of
imagery around her, she indulged the pen-
sive tranquillity which they inspired ; and
while she leaned on her window, waiting till
St. Aubert should descend to breakfast, her
ideas arranged themselves in the following
lines.

THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING,

How sweet to wind the forest's tangled shade,
When early twilight, from the eastern bound,

Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade,
And fades as morning spreads her blush around !

When ev'ry infant flower, that wept in night
Lifts its chill head, soft glowing with a tear

jExpands its tender blossom to the light.
And gives its incense to the geuiai air

How fresh the breeze that wafte the rkh perfum*.
And swells the melody of waking birds !

The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom !
And woodman's song ! and low of distant herds »

Then, doubtful gleams the mountain's hoary head,
Seen through the parting foliage from afar ;

And, further still, the ocean's misty bed,

With flitting sails, that partial sun-beams share.

But vain the sylvan shade, the breath of May,
The voice of music floating on the gale,
And forms that beam through morning's dewy veil,

If health no longer bid the heart be gay !

O balmy hour ! 'tis thine her wealth to give ;
Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live !

Emily now heard persons moving below in
the cottage,and presently the voice of Michael,
who was talking to his mules, as he led them
forth from a hut adjoining. As she left the
room, St. Aubert, who was now risen, met
her at the door, apparently as little restored
by sleep as herself. She led him down stairs,
to the little parlour in which they had supped
on the preceding night, where they found a
neat breakfast set out, while the host and
his daughter waited to bid them good morrow.
" I envy you this cottage, my good friends,"
said St. Aubert, as he met them, " it is so
pleasant, so quiet, and so neat ; and this air
that one breathes — if any thing could restore
lost health, it would surely be this air."
" La Voisin bowed gratefully, and replied,
with the gallantry of a Frenchman, " Our
cottage may be envied, sir, since you and
mademoiselle have honoured itwith your pre-
sence." St. Aubert gave him a friendly smile,
for his compliment, and sat down to a table
spread with cream, fruit, new cheese, butter,
and coffee. Emily, who had observed her father
with attention, and thought he looked very ill,
endeavoured to persuade him to defer travel
ling till the afternoon ; but he seemed very
anxious to be at home, and his anxiety he
expressed repeatedly, and with an earnestness
that was unusual with him. He now said,
he found himself as well as he had been of
late, and that he could bear travelling better
in the cool hour of the morning, than at any
other time. But while he was talking with
his venerable host, and thanking him for his
kind attentions, Emily observed his coun
tenance change, and, before she could reach
him, he fell back in his chair. In a few
moments he recovered from the sudden fain t-
ness that had come over him, but felt so ill,
that he perceived himself unable to set out ;
and having remained a little while struggling
against the pressure of indisposition, he
begged he might be helped up stairs to bed.
This request renewed all the terror which
Emily had suffered on the preceding even-
ing 5 but, though scarcely able to support
herself under the sudden shock it gave her,
she tried to conceal her apprehensions from
St. Aubert, and gave her trembling aim to
assist him to the door of his chamber.

When he was once more in bed, he desired

THE MYSTfcffTES OF UDOLPHO,

17

that Emily* who was then weeping in her own
room, might be called -, and as she came, he
waved his hand for every other person to
quit the apartment. When they were alone,
he held out his hand to her, and fixed his
eyes upon her countenance, with an expres-
sion 60 full of tenderness and grief, that all
her fortitude forsook her, and she burst into
an agony of tears. St. Aubert seemed strug-
gling to acquire firmness, but was still
unable to speak ; he could only press her
hand, and check the tears that stood trem-
bling in his eyes. At length he commanded
his voice . " My dear child," said he, trying
to smile through his anguish, " my dear
Emily !" — and paused again. He raised
his eyes to heaven, as if in prayer, and then,
in a firmer tone, and with a look in which
the tenderness of the father was dignified by
the pious solemnity of the saint, he said,
" My dear child, I would soften the painful
truth I have to tell you, but I find myself
quite unequal to the art. Alas ! I would,
at this moment, conceal it from you, but that
it would be most cruel to deceive you. It
cannot be long before we must part ; let us
talk of it, that our thoughts and our pray-
ers may prepare us to bear it." His voice
faltered, while Emily, still weeping, pressed
his hand close to her heart, which swelled
with a convulsive sigh j but she could not
look up.

" Let me not waste these moments," said
St. Aubert, recovering himself: "I have
much to say. There is a circumstance of
solemn consequence, which I have to men-
tion, and a solemn promise to obtain from
you ; when this is done I shall be easier.
You have observed, my dear,, how anxious
1 am to reach home, but know not all my
reasons for this. Listen to what I am going
to say. — Yet stay — before I say more,
give me this promise — a promise made to
your dying father I" — St. Aubert was inter-
rupted : Emily, struck by his last words, as
if for the first time, with a conviction of his
immediate danger, raised her head : her
tears stopped 5 and, gazing at him for a
moment with an expression of unutterable
anguish, a slight convulsion seized her, and
she sunk senseless in her chair. St. Aubert's
cries brought La Voisin and his daughter to
the room, and they administered every
means in their power to restore her, but,
for a considerable time, without effect.
When she recovered, St. Aubert was so ex-
hausted by the scene he had witnessed, that
it was many minutes before he had strength
to speak: he was, however, somewhat re-
vived by a cordial, which Emily gave him ;
and, being again alone with her, he exerted
himself to tranquillise her spirits, and to
offer her all the comfort of which her situ-
ation admitted. She threw herself into his
arms, wept on his neck ; and grief made her

so insensible to all he said, that he censed
to offer the alleviations, which he himself
could not, at this moment, feel, and mingled
his silent tears with her's. Recalled, at
length, to a sense of duty, she tried to spare
her father from further view of her sufferings
and, quitting his embrace, dried her tears,
and said something, which she meant for
consolation. " My dear Emily," replied St.
Aubert, " my dear child, we must look up
with humble confidence to that Being, who
has protected and comforted us in every
danger and in every affliction we hare
known ; to whose eye every moment of our
lives has been exposed : he will not, he does
not, forsake us now ; 1 feel his consolations
in my heart. I shall leave you, my child,
still in his care ; and, though I depart from
this world, I shall still be in his presence. Nay,
weep not again, my Emily. In death there
is nothing new, or surprising, since we all
know that we are born to die ; and nothing
terrible, to those who can confide in an all-
powerful God. Had my life been spared
now, after a very few years, in the course of
nature, I must have resigned it: old age,
with all its train of infirmity, its privations
and its sorrows, would have been mine ; and
then, at last, death would have come, an<?
called forth the tears you now shed. Rather,
my child, rejoice, that 1 am saved from such
suffering, and that 1 am permitted to die
with a mind unimpaired, and sensible of the
comforts of faith, and of resignation." St.
Aubert paused, fatigued with speaking.
Emily again endeavoured to assume an air
of composure ; and, in replying to what he
had said, tried to soothe him with a belief
that he had not spoken in vain.

When he had reposed a while, he resumed
the conversation. " Let me return," said
he, "to a subject which is very near my
heart. I said, 1 had a solemn promise to
receive from you 3 let me receive it now,
before I explain the chief circumstance
which it concerns ; there are others, of which
your peace requires that you should rest in
ignorance. Promise, then, that you will
perform exactly what I shall enjoin."

Emily, awed by the earnest solemnity of
his manner, dried her tears, that had begun
again to flow in spite of her efforts to sup-
press them, and, looking eloquently at St.
Aubert, bound herself to do whatever he
should require, by a vow at which she shud-
dered, yet knew not why.

He proceeded : " I know you too well,
my Emily, to believe, that you would break
any promise, much less one thus solemnly
given ; your assurance gives me peace, and
the observance of it is of the utmost impor-
tance to your tranquillity. Hear, then, what
I am going to tell you. The closet which
adjoins my chamber at La Vallee, has a
sliding board in the floor: you will know it

as

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

by a remarkable knot in the wood, and by
its being the next board, except one, to the
wainscot which fronts the door. At the
distance of about a yard from that end,
nearer the window, you will perceive a line
across it, as if the plank had been joined.—
The way to open it is this : — press your foot
upon the line ; the end of the board will then
sink, and you may slide it with ease beneath
the other. Below you will see a hollow
place.1' St. Aubert paused for breath, and
Emily sat fixed in deep attention. " Do
you understand these directions, my dear ?"
said he. Emily, though scarcely able to
speak, assured him that she did.

" When you return home, then," he added,
with a deep sigh —

At the mention of her return home, all
the melancholy circumstances that must
attend this return, rushed upon her fancy 5
she burst into convulsive grief, and St.
Aubert himself, affected beyond the resistance
of the fortitude which he had at first sum-
moned, wept with her. After some mo-
ments, he composed himself. " My dear
child," said he, "be comforted. When I am
gone, you will not be forsaken — I leave you
only in the more immediate care of that
Providence, which has never yet forsaken
me. Do not afflict me with this excess of
grief 5 rather teach me by your example to
bear my own." He stopped again, and
Emily, the more she endeavoured to restrain
her emotion, found it the less possible to
do so.

St. Aubert, who now spoke with pain,
resumed the subject. "That closet, my dear
—when you return home, go to it; and,
beneath the board I have described, you
will find a packet of written papers. Attend
to me now, for the promise you have given
particularly relates to what I shall direct.
These papers you must burn- — and, solemnly
I command you, without examining tJiew"

Emily's surprise, for a moment, overcame
her grief, and she ventured to ask, why this
must be? St. Aubert replied, that if it had
been right for him to explain his reasons, her
late promise would have been unnecessarily
exacted. " It is sufficient for you, my love,
to have a deep sense of the importance of
observing me in this instance." St. Aubert
proceeded: " Under that board you will also
find about two hundred louis-d'ors, wrapt in
a silk purse. Indeed^ it was to secure what-
ever money might be in the chateau, that
this secret place was contrived, at a time
when the province was over-run by troops of
men who took advantage of the tumults aud
became plunderers.

" But l have yet another promise to receive
from you, which is— that you will never,
whatever may be your future circumstances,
neH the chateau. St. Aubert even enjoined
her, whenever she might marry, to make it

an article in the contract, that the chateau
should always be hers. He then gave her a
more minute account of his present circum-
stances than he had yet done; adding, "The
two hundred louis, with what money you
will now find in my purse, is all the ready
money I have to leave you. I have told you
how I am circumstanced with M. Motteville
at Paris. Ah, my child ! I leave you poor

but not destitute," he added, after a

long pause. Emily could make no reply to
any thing he now said, but knelt at the bed-
side, with her face upon the quilt, weeping
over the hand she held there.

After this conversation, the mind of St.
Aubert appeared to be much more at ease 5
but, exhausted by the effort of speaking,
he sunk into a kind of doze ; and "Emily
continued to watch and weep beside him,
till a gentle tap at the chamber-door roused
her. It was La Voisin, come to say, that a
confessor from the neighbouring convent
was below, ready to attend St. Aubert.
Emily would not suffer her father to be
disturbed, but desired that the priest might
not leave the cottage. When St. Aubert
awoke from this doze, his senses were con-
fused, and it was some moments before he
recovered them sufficiently to know that it
was Emily who sat beside him. He then
moved his lips, and stretched forth his hand
to her ; as she received which, she sunk
back in her chair, overcome by the im-
pression of death on his countenance. In a
few minutes he recovered his voice, and
Emily then asked if he wished to see the
confessor : he replied that he did ; and,
when the holy father appeared, she with-
drew. They remained alone together above
half an hour. When Emily was called in,
she found St. Aubert more agitated than
when she had left him, and she gazed with
a slight degree of resentment at the friar,
as the cause of this ; who, however, looked
mildly and mournfully at her, and turned
away. St. Aubert, in a tremulous voice,
said he wished her to join in prayer with
him, and asked if La Voisin would do so
too. The old man and his daughter came :
they both wept, and knelt with Emily round
the bed, while the holy father read in a
solemn voice the service for the dying. St.
Aubert lay with a serene countenance, and
seemed to join fervently in the devotion ;
while tears often stole from beneath his
closed eye-lids, and Emily's sobs more than
once interrupted the service.

When it was concluded, and extreme
unction had been administered, the friar
withdrew. St. Aubert then made a sign for
La Voisin to come nearer. He gave him
his hand, and was for a moment silent. At
length he said, in a trembling voice, "My
good friend, our acquaintance has been
short, but long enough to give you an oppor-

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

30

f unity of knowing me much kind attention.
1 cannot doubt but you will extend this
kindness to my daughter when I am gone :
6he will have need of it. I entrust her to
your care during* the few days she will re-
main here. I need say no more — you know
the feelings of a father, for you have chil-
dren : mine would be indeed severe, if I
had less confidence in you." He paused.
La Voisin assured him, and his tears bore
testimony to his sincerity, that he would do
all he could to soften her affliction, and
that, if St. Aubert wished it, he would even
attend her into Gascony — an offer so pleasing
to St. Aubert, that he had scarcely words to
acknowledge his sense of the old man's
kindness, or to tell him that he accepted it.
—The scene that followed between St. Au-
bert and Emily, affected La Voisin so much,
that he quitted the chamber, and she was
again left alone with her father, whose
spirits seemed fainting fast ; but neither his
senses nor his voice yet failed him ; and,
at intervals, he employed much of these last
awful moments in advising his daughter as
to her future conduct. Perhaps he never
had thought more justly, or expressed him-
self more clearly, than he did now.

" Above all, my dear Emily," said he,
" do not indulge in the pride of fine feeling,
the romantic error of amiable minds. Those
who really possess sensibility ought early to
6e taught that it is a dangerous quality,
which is continually extracting the excess of
misery or delight from every surrounding
circumstance. And since, in our passage
through this world, painful circumstances
occur more frequently than pleasing ones,
and since our sense of evil is, I fear, more
acute than our sense of good, we become
the victims of our feelings, unless we can in
some degree command them. I know you
will say— for you are young, my Emily — I
know you will say, that you are contented
sometimes to suffer, rather than to give up
your refined sense of happinesF at others j
but when your mind has been long harrassed
by vicissitude, you will be content to rest,
and you will then recover from your de-
lusion : you will perceive that the phantom
of happiness is exchanged for the sub-
stance ; for happiness arises in a state
of peace, not of tumult : it is of a tem-
perate and uniform nature, and can no
more exist in a heart that is continually
alive to minute circumstances, than in one
that is dead to feeling. You see, my dear,
that though I would guard you against the
dangers of sensibility, I am not an advocate
for apathy. At your age, I should have
said that is a vice more hateful than
all the errors of sensibility, and I say
so still. I call it a tn'ce, because it leads to
positive evil. In this, however, it does no
no more than an ill-governed tensibility,

which, by such a rule, might also be called
a vice 5 but the evil of the former is of
more general consequence. I have ex-
hausted myself," said St. Aubert feebly,
"and have wearied you, my Emily; but,
on a subject so important to your future
comfort, I am anxious to be perfectly
understood."

Emily assured him that his advice was
most precious to her, and that she would
never forget it, or cease from endeavouring
to profit by it. St. Aubert smiled affec-
tionately and sorrowfully upon her. — "I re-
peat it," said he, "I would not teach you to
become insensible, if I could — I would only
warn you of the evils of susceptibility, and
point out how you may avoid them. Be-
ware, my love, I conjure you, of that self,
delusion which has been fatal to the peace
of so many persons — beware of priding
yourself on the gracefulness of sensibility :
if you yield to this vanity, your happiness
is lost for ever. Always remember how
much more valuable is the strength of for-
titude, than the grace of sensibility. Do
not, however, confound fortitude with apa-
thy : apathy cannot know the virtue.—
Remember too, that one act of beneficence,
one act of real usefulness, is worth all the
abstract sentiment in the world. Sentiment
is a disgrace, instead of an ornament, un-
less it lead us to good actions : the miser
who thinks himself respectable merely
because he possesses wealth, and thus mis-
takes the means of doing good for the
actual accomplishment of it, is not more
blameable than the man of sentiment with-
out active virtue. You may have observed
persons, who delight so much in this sort of
sensibility to sentiment, which excludes
that to the calls of any practical virtue,
that they turn from the distressed, and, be»
cause their sufferings are painful to be
contemplated, do not endeavour to relieve
them. How despicable is that humanity
which can be contented to pity where it
might assuage."

St. Aubert, some time after, spoke of
Madame Cheron, his sister. " Let me in-
form you of a circumstance that nearly
affects your welfare," he added. « We
have, you know, had little intercourse for
some years ; but, as she is now your only
female relation, I have thought it proper to
consign you to her care, as you will see in
my will, till you are of age, and to recom-
mend you to her protection afterwards.
She is not exactly the person to whom
I would have committed my Emily; but I
had no alternative, and I believe her to be,
upon the whole, a good kind of woman. I
need not recommend it to your prudence,
my love, to endeavour to conciliate her
kindness : you will do so for his sake, who
has often wished to do so for you? V

Emily assured him, that whatever he re-
quested she would religiously perform to the
utmost of her ability. " Alas !" added she,
in a voice interrupted by sighs, " that will
soon be all which remains for me ; it will be
almost my only consolation to fulfil your
wtehe&r !

St. Aubert looked up silently in her face,
as if he would have spoken -> but his spirits
sunk a while, and his e^es became heavy
and dull. She felt that look at her heart.
M My dear father !" she exclaimed ; and then,
checking herself, pressed his hand closer,
and hid her face with her handkerchief. Her
tears were concealed, but St. Aubert heard
her convulsive sobs. His spirits returned.
" O my child !" said he, faintly, " let my
consolations be your's : I die in peace ; for I
know that I am about to return to the bosom
of my Father, who will still be your Father,
when I am gone. Always trust in him, my
love, and he will support you in these
moments, as he supports me."

Emily could only listen, and weep ; but
the extreme composure of his manner, and
the faith and hope he expressed, somewhat
soothed her anguish. Yet, whenever she
looked upon his emaciated countenance, and
saw the lines of death beginning to prevail
over it — saw his sunk eyes still bent on her,
and their heavy lids pressing to a close —
there was a pang in her heart, such as defied
expression, though it required filial virtue
like her's to forbear the attempt.

He desired once more to bless her : "Where
are you, my dear?" said he, as he stretched
forth his hands. Emily had turned to the

window, that he might not perceive her
anguish : she now understood that his sight
had failed him. When he had given her his
blessing — and it seemed to be the last efTort
of expiring life — he sunk back on his pillow.
She kissed his forehead — the damps of death
had settled there ; and, forgetting her for-
titude for a moment, her tears mingled with
them. St. Aubert lifted up his eyes : the
spirit of a father returned to them ; but it
quickly vanished and he spoke no more.

St. Aubert lingered till about three o'clock
in the afternoon, and, thus gradually sinking
into death, he expired, without a struggle
or a sigh.

Emily was led from the chamber by L
Voisin and his daughter, who did what they
could to comfort her. The old man sat and
wept with her. Agnes was more erroneous!)
officious.

CHAP. IX.

11 O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial forms shall sit at eve,
And bend the pensive head."

COLLI NS

The monk who had before appeared, re-
turned in the evening to offer consolation to
Emily, and brought a kind message from
the lady abbess, inviting her to the convent.
Emily, though she did not accept the offer
returned an answer expressive of her grati
tude. The holy conversation of the friar
whose mild benevolence of manners bore
some resemblam e to those of St. Aubert,
soothed the violence m her grief, and lifted
her heart to the iieing, who, extending

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

41

through all p ace and all eternity, looks on
the events of this little world as on the sha-
dows of a moment, and beholds equally, and
in the same instant, the soul that has pass-
ed the gates of death, and that which still
lingers in the body. " In the sight of God,"
said Emily, " my dear father now exists, as
truly as he yesterday existed to me : it is to
me only that he is dead — to God and to
himself he yet lives!"

The good monk left her more tranquil
than she had been since St. Aubert died ;
and, before she retired to her little cabin for
the night, she trusted herself so far as to
visit the corpse. Silent, and without weep-
ing, she stood by its side. The features,
placid and serene, told the nature of the last
sensations that had lingered in the now de^
serted frame, for a moment she turned
away, in horror of the stillness in which
death had fixed that countenance, never till
now seen otherwise than animated ; then
gazed on it with a mixture of doubt and
awful astonishment. Her reason could
scarcely overcome an involuntary and un-
accountable expectation of seeing that be-
loved countenance still susceptible. She
continued to gaze wildly ; took up the cold
hand ; spoke ; still gazed ; and then burst
into a transport of grief. La Voisin, hear-
ing her sobs, came into the room to lead her
away ; but she heard nothing, and only
begged that he would leave her.

Again alone, she indulged her tears ; and
when the gloom of evening obscured the
chamber, and almost veiled from her eyes
the object of her distress, she still hung over
the body ; -till her spirits, at length, were ex-
hausted, and she became tvanqu.il. La Voi-
sin again knocked at the door, and entreat-
ed that she would come to the common
apartment. Before she went, she kissed the
lips of St. Aubert, as she was wont to do
when she bade him good night. Again she
kissed them. Her heart felt as if itfKmld
break : a few tears of agony started to her
eyes — she looked up to heaven — then at St.
Aubert — and left the room.

Retired to her lonely cabin, her melan-
choly thoughts still hovered round the body
of her deceased parent ; and, when she sunk
£nto a kind of slumber, the images of her
waking mind still haunted her fancy. She
thought she saw her father approaching her
with a benign countenance : then, smiling
mournfully, and pointing upwards, his lips
moved ; but, instead of words, she heard
sweet music borne on the distant air, and
presently saw his features glow with the
mild rapture of a superior being. The strain
seemed to swell louder, and she awoke. The
vision was gone ; but music yet came to
ler ear in strains such as angels might
breathe. She doubted, .istened, raised her-

self in the bed, and again listened. It was
music, and not an illusion of her imagina-
tion. After a solemn, steady harmony, it
paused — then rose again in mournful sweet-
ness— and then died in a cadence that seem*
ed to bear away the listening soul to heaven.
She instantly remembered the music of the
preceding night, with the strange circuit*
stances related by La Voisin, and the affect
ing conversation it had led to concerning the
state of departed spirits. All that St. Au-
bert had said on that subject now pressed
Upon her heart, and overwhelmed it. What
a change in a few hours ! He, who then
could only conjecture, was now made ac-
quainted with truth — was himself become
one of the departed ! As she listened, she
was chilled with superstitious awe j her tears
stopped : and she arose, and went to the
window. All without was obscured in shade;
but Emily, turning her eyes from the massy
darkness of the woods, whose waving outline
appeared on the horizon, saw, on the.left,
that effulgent planet, which the old man had
pointed out, setting over the woods. She
remembered what he had said concerning it ;
and the music now coming at intervals on
the air, she unclosed the casement to listen
to the strains, that soon gradually sunk to a
greater distance, and tried to discover whence
they came. The obscurity prevented her
from distinguishing any object on the green
platform below •, and the sounds became
fainter and fainter, till they softened into
silence. She listened, but they returned no
more. Soon after, she observed the planet
trembling between the fringed tops of the
woods, and in the next moment, sink behind
them. Chilled with a melancholy awe, she
retired once more to her bed, and at length
forgot for a while her sorrows in sleep.

On the following morning she was visited
by a sister of the convent, who came with
kind offices and a second invitation from the
lady abbess 5 and Emily, though she could
not forsake the cottage while the remains of
her father were in it, consented, however
painful such a visit must be in the present
state of her spirits, to pay her respects to
the abbess in the evening.

About an hour before sun-set, La Voisin
showed her the way through the woods to
the convent, which stood in a small bay of
the Mediterranean, crowned by a woody
amphitheatre ; and Emily, had she been less
unhappy, would have admired the extensive
sea-view that appeared from the green slope
in front of the edifice, and the rich shores,
hung with woods and pastures, that extend-
ed on either hand. But her thoughts were
now occupied by one sad idea •, and the fea-
tures of nature were to her colourless, and
without form. The bell for vespers struck
as she passed the ancient gate of the con-

¥t

THE MYSTERIES OF' UDOLPHO.

vent, and seemed tiie funeral note for St.
Aubert : little incidents affect a mind ener-
vated by sorrow. Emily struggled against
the sickening faintness that came over her,
and was led into the presence of the abbess,
who received her with an air of maternal
tenderness — an air of such gentle solicitude
and consideration as touched her with an
instantaneous gratitude : her eyes were fill-
ed with tears ; and the words she would
have spoken faltered on her lips. The ab-
bess led her to a seat, and sat down beside
her ; still holding her hand, and regarding
her in silence, as Emily dried her tears and
attempted to speak. u Be composed, my
daughter," said the abbess in a soothing
voice : " do not speak yet ; I know all you
would say. Your spirits must be soothed.
We are going to prayers : will you attend
our evening service ? It is comfortable, my
child, to look up in our afflictions to a Fa-
ther who sees and pities us, and who chas-
tens in his mercy."

Emily's tears flowed again ; but a thou-
sand sweet emotions mingled with them.
The abbess suffered her to weep without in-
terruption, and watched over her with a
look of benignity that might have charac-
terized the countenance of a guardian angel.
Emily, when she became tranquil, was en-
couraged to speak without reserve, and to
mention the motive that made her unwil-
ling to quit the cottage ; which the abbess
did not oppose even by a hint •, but praised
the filial piety of her conduct, and added a
hope that she would pass a few days at the
convent before she returned to La Vallee. —
" You must allow yourself a little time to
recover from your first shock, my daughter,
before you encounter a second . I will not
affect to conceal from you how much I
know your heart must suffer on returning
to the scene of your former happiness. Here
you will have all that quiet, and sympathy,
and religion, can give, to restore your spi-
rits. But come," added she, observing the
tears swell in Emily's eyes, " we will go
to the chapel."

Emily followed to the parlour, where the
nuns were assembled ; to whom the abbess
committed her, saying, " This is a daughter
for whom I have much esteem 5 be sisters to
her."

They passed on in a train to the chapel 5
where the solemn devotion with which the
service was performed elevated her mind,
and brought to it the comforts of faith and
resignation.

Twilight came on before the abbess's kind-
ness would suffer Emily to depart ; when she
left the convent with a heart much lighter
than she had entered it, and was re-conduct-
ed by La Voisin through the woods, the pen-
sive trloom of which was in unison with the

temper of her mind 5 and she pursued the
little wild path in musing silence, till her
guide suddenly stopped, looked round, and
then struck out of the path into the high
grass, saying he had mistaken the road. He
now walked on quickly; and Emily, p o-
ceeding with difficulty over the obscured
and uneven ground, was left at some dis-
tance, till her voice arrested him, who seem-
ed unwilling to stop, and still hurried ou. —
" If you are in doubt about the way," said
Emily, " had we not better inquire it at the
chateau yonder, between the trees ?"

" No, replied La Voisin •, " there is no
occasion. When we reach that brook, ma'am-
selle — (you see the light upon the water
there, beyond the woods,) — when we reach
that brook we shall be at home presently.
I don't know how I happened to mistake the
path. T seldom come this way after sun-
set.*

" It is solitary enough," said Emily ;
" but you have no banditti here ?" " No,
ma'amselle — no ^banditti ."

What are you afraid of then, my good
friend ? — you are not superstitious ?" " No,
not superstitious ; — but to tell you the truth,
lady, nobody likes to go near the chateau
after dusk." " By whom is it inhabited,"
said Emily, " that it is so formidable ?"
" Why, ma'amselle, it is scarcely inhabited,
for our lord the Marquis, and the lord of all
these fine woods too, is dead. He had not
dnce been in it for these many years ; and
his people, who have the care of it, live in a
cottage close by." Emily now understood
this to be the chateau which La Voisin had
formerly pointed out as having belonged to
the Marquis Villeroi, on the mention of
which her father had appeared so much
affected.

" Ah ! it is a desolate place now," con*
tinued La Voisin 5 u and such a grand, fine
place as I remember it !" Emily inquired
what had occasioned this lamentable change,
but the old man was silent 'y and Emily,
whose interest was awakened by the fear he
had expressed, and above all by a recollec-
tion of her father's agitation, repeated the
question, and added, " If you are neither
afraid of the inhabitants, my good friend,
nor are superstitious, how happens it that
you dread to pass near that chateau in the
dark ?"

" Perhaps, then, I am a little superstiti-
ous, ma'amselle ; and if you knew what I
do, you might be so too. Strange things
have happened there. Monsieur, youi good
father, appeared to have known the late
Marchioness." " Pray inform me what did
happen," said Emily with much emotion.

" Alas ! ma'amselle," answered La Voisin,
" inquire no further : it is not for me to lay
open the domestic secrets of my lord."—

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO

43

Emily, surprised by the old man's words,
and his manner of delivering them, forbore
to repeat her question : a nearer interest,
the remembrance of St. Aubert, occupied her
thoughts ; and she was led to recollect the
music she heard on the preceding night,
which she mentioned to La Voisin. " You
was not alone, ma'amselle, in this," he re-
plied ; " I heard it too ♦ but I have so often
heard it at the same hour, that I was scarcely
surprised."

"You doubtless believe this music to
have some connexion with the chateau,"
said Emily suddenly ; " and are, therefore,
superstitious." w It may be so, ma'amselle ;
but there are other circumstances belonging
to that chateau which I remember, and sad-
ly too !" A heavy sigh followed : but Emi-
ly's delicacy restrained the curiosity these
words revived, and she inquired no further.

On reaching the cottage, all the violence
of her grief returned : it seemed as if she
had escaped its heavy pressure only while
she was removed from the object of it. She
passed immediately to the chamber where
the remains of her father were laid, and
yielded to all the anguish of hopeless grief.
La Voisin, at length, persuaded her to leave
the room, and she returned to her own ;
where, exhausted by the sufferings of the
day, she soon fell into deep sleep, and awoke
considerably refreshed.

When the dreadful hour arrived in which
the remains of St. Aubert were to be taken
from her for ever, she went alone to the
chamber to look upon his countenance yet
once again ; and La Voisin, who had waited
patiently below stairs till her despair should
subside, with tl\e respect due to grief, for-
bore to interrupt the indulgence of it, till
surprise at the length of her stay, and then
apprehension, overcame his delicacy, and he
went to lead her from the chamber. Hav-
ing tapped gently at the door, without re-
ceiving an answer, he listened attentively,
but all was still — no sigh, no sob of anguish
was heard. Yet more alarmed by this si-
lenGe, he opened the door, and found Emily
lying senseless across the foot of the bed,
near which stood the coffin. His calls pro-
cured assistance, and she was carried to her
room, where proper applications at length
restored her.

During her state of insensibility, La Voi-
sin had given directions for the coffin to be
closed, and he succeeded in persuading Emi-
ly to forbear revisiting the chamber. She,
indeed, felt herself unequal to this, and also
perceived the necessity of sparing her spi-
rits, and collecting fortitude sufficient to
bear her through the approaching scene,
St. Aubert had given a particular injunction
that his remains should be interred in the
church of the convent of St. Clair, and in

mentioning the north chancel, near the an*
cient tomb of the Villerois, had pointed out
the exact spot where he wished to be laid.
The superior had granted this place for the
interment ; and thither therefore the sad pro-
cession now moved ; which was met at the
gates by the venerable priest, followed by a
train of friars. Every person who heard the
solemn chant of the anthem, and the peal of
the organ, that struck up when the body
entered the church, and saw also the feeble
steps and the assumed tranquillity of Emily,
gave her involuntary tears. She shed none ;
but walked, her face partly shaded by a thin
black veil, between two persons, who support-
ed her, preceded by the abbess, and followed
by nuns, whose plaintive voices mellowed the
swelling harmony of the dirge. When the pro-
cession came to the grave, the music ceased.
Emily drew the veil entirely over her face, and
in a momentary pause between the anthem
and the rest of the service, her sobs were
distinctly audible. The holy father began
the service : and Emily again commanded
her feelings till the coffin was let down, and
she heard the earth rattle on its lid : then,
as she shuddered, a groan burst from her
heait, and she leaned for support on the
person who stood next to her. In a few
moments she recovered ; and when she heard
those affecting and sublime words—" His
body is buried in peace, and his soul re-
turns to him that gave it" — her anguish
softened into tears.

The abbess led her from the church into
her own parlour, and there administered all
the consolations that religion and gentle
sympathy can give. Emily struggled against
the pressure of grief ; but the abbess, ob-
serving her attentively, ordered a bed to be
prepared, and recommended her to retire to
repose. She also kindly claimed her promise
to remain a few days at the convent ; and
Emily, who had no wish to return to the
cottage, the scene of all her sufferings, had
leisure, now that no immediate care pressed
upon her attention, to feel the indisposition
which disabled her from immediately travel-
ling.

Meanwhile, the maternal kindness of the
abbess, and the gentle attentions of the nuns,
did all that was possible towards soothing
her spirits, and restoring her health. But
the latter was too deeply wounded, through
the medium of her mind, to be quickly re.
vived. She lingered for some weeks at the
convent, under the influence of a slow fever,
wishing to return home, yet unable to go
thither ; often even reluctant to leave the
spot where her father's relics were deposited,
and sometimes soothing herself with the
consideration, that if she died here, her re-
mains would repose beside those of St. Au-
bert. In «he meanwhile, she 6ent letters to

*4

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

Madame Cheron aud to the old housekeeper,
informing them of the sad event that had ta-
ken place, and of her own situation. From
her aunt she received an answer, abounding
more in common-place condolement than in
traits of real sorrow, which assured her that
a servant should be sent to conduct her to
La Vallee, for that her own time was so
much occupied by company, that she had
no leisure to undertake so long a journey.
However Emily might prefer La Vallee to
Thoulouse, she could not be insensible of
the indecorous and unkind conduct of her
aunt, in suffering her to return thither,
where she had no longer a relation to console
and protect her — a conduct which was the
more culpable, since St. Aubert had ap-
pointed Madame Cheron the guardian of his
orphan daughter.

Madame Cheron's servant made the at-
tendance of the good La Voisin unnecessary;
and Emily, who felt sensibly her obliga-
tions to him, for all his kind attention to her
late father, as well as to herself, was glad to
spare him a long, and what, at his time of
life, must have been a troublesome, jour-
ney.

During her stay at the convent, the peace
and sanctity that reigned within the tranquil
beauty of the scenery without, and the deli-
cate attentions of the abbess and the nuns,
were circumstances so soothing to her mind,
that they almost tempted her to leave a
world where she had lost her dearest friends,
and devote herself to the cloister, in a spot
rendered sacred to her by containing the
tomb of St. Aubert. The pensive enthu-
siasm too, so natural to her temper, had
spread a beautiful illusion over the sanc-
tified retirement of a nun, that almost hid
from her view the selfishness of its security.
But the touches which a melancholy fancy,
slightly tinctured with superstition, gave to
the monastic scene, began to fade as her spi-
rits revived, and brought once more to her
heart an image which had only transiently
been banished thence. By this she was
silently awakened to hope, and comfort, and
sweet affections : visions of happiness gleam-
ed faintly at a distance ; and though she
knew them to be illusions, she could not re-
solve to shut them out for ever. It was the
remembrance of Valancourt — of his taste,
his genius, and of the countenance which
glowed with both — that, perhaps, alone de-
termined her to return to the world. The
grandeur and sublimity of the scene*
amidst which they had first met, had fasci-
nated her fancy, and had imperceptibly con-
tributed to render Valancourt more interest-
ing, by seeming to communicate to him
somewhat of their own character. The es-
teem too which St. Aubert had repeatedly
expiu^/xl for him, sanctioned this kindness.

But though his countenance and manner had
continually expressed his admiration of her
he had no otherwise declared it 5 and even
the hope of seeing him again was so distant,
that she was scarcely conscious of it — stih
less that it influenced her conduct on this
occasion. ,

It was several days after the arrival of
Madame Cheron's servant before Emily was
sufficiently recovered to undertake the jour-
ney to La Vallee. On the evening preced-
ing her departure, she went to the cottage
to take leave of La Voisin and his family,
and to make them a return for their kind
ness. The old man she found sitting on >
bench at his door, between his daughter and
his son-in law, who was just returned from
his daily labour, and who was playing
upon a pipe that in tone resembled an
oboe. A flask of wine stood beside the
old man, and before him a small table of
fruit and bread, round which stood several
of his grandsons, fine rosy children, who
were taking their supper as their mothei
distributed it. On the edge of the little
green that spread before the cottage, were
cattle and a few sheep reposing under th*.
trees. The landscape was touched with th'
mellow light of the evening sun, whose long
slanting beams played through a vista of the
woods, and lighted up the distant turrets of
the chateau. She paused a moment, before
she emerged from the shade, to gaze upon
the happy group before her — on the compla-
cency and ease of healthy age, depictured on
the countenance of La Voisin 3 the maternal
tenderness of Agnes, as she looked upon her
children ; and the innocency of infantine
pleasures, reflected in their smiles. Emily
looked again at the venerable old man, and
at the cottage : the memory of her father
rose with full force upon her mind, and she
hastily stepped forward, afraid to trust her-
self with a longer pause. She took an affec-
tionate and affecting leave of La Voisin and
his family : he seemed to love her as his
daughter, and shed tears : Emily shed many.
She avoided going into the cottage, since she
knew it would revive emotions such as she
could not now endure.

One painful scene yet awaited her— for
she determined to visit again her father's
grave ; and that she might not be interrupt-
ed or observed in the indulgence of her me-
lancholy tenderness, she deferred her visit
till every inhabitant of the convent, except
the nun who promised to bring her the key
of the church, should be retired to rest.
Emily remained in her chamber till she
heard the convent bell strike twelve, when
the nun came, as she had appointed, with the
key of a private door that opened into the
church ; and they descended together the
narrow winding staircase that led thither.

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

43

The nun offered to accompany Emily to the
grave, adding, " It is melancholy to go
alone at this hour ;" but the former, thank-
ing her for the consideration, could not con-
sent to have any witness of her sorrow ; and
the sister, having unlocked the door, gave
her the lamp. u You will remember, sister,"
said she, *c that in the east aisle, which you
must pass, is a newly opened grave : hold
the light to the ground, that you may not
stumble over the loose earth." Emily thank-
ing her again, took the lamp, and, stepping
into the church, sister Mariette departed.
But Emily paused a moment at the door: a
sudden fear came over her, and she returned
to the foot of the staircase, where, as she
heard the step of the nun ascending, and
while she held up the lamp, saw her black
veil waving over the spiral balusters, she
was tempted to call her back. While she
hesitated, the veil disappeared, and in the
next moment, ashamed of her fears, she re-
turned to the church. The cold air of the
aisles chilled her ; and their deep silence
and extent, feebly shone upon by the moon-
light that streamed through a Gothic win-
dow, would at any other time have awed her
into superstition ; now, grief occupied all
her attention. She scarcely heard the whis-
pering echoes of her own steps, or thought of
the open grave, till she found herself almost
on its brink. A friar of the convent had
been buried there on tlie preceding evening,
and as she had sat alone in her chamber at
twilight, she heard at a distance, the monks
chanting the requiem for his soul. Thrs
brought freshly to her memory the circum-
stances of her father's death ; and as the
voices, mingling with a low querulous peal
of the organ, swelled faintly, gloomy and
affecting visions had arisen upon her mind.
Now she remembered them, and turning
aside to avoid the broken ground, these
recollections made her pass on with quicker
steps to the grave of St. Aubert ; when, in
the moon-light that fell athwart a remote
part of the aisle, she thought she saw a sha-
dow gliding between the pillars. She stop,
ped to listen, and not hearing any footstep,
believed that her fancy had deceived her,
and, no longer apprehensive of being ob-
served, proceeded. St. Aubert was buried
beneath a plain marble, bearing little more
than his name, and the date of his birth and
death, near the foot of the stately monument
of the Villerois. Emily remained at his
grave, till a chime, that called the monks to
early prayers, warned her to retire ; then she
wept over it a last farewell, and forced her-
self from the spot. After this hour of me-
lancholy indulgence, she was refreshed by a
deeper sleep than she had experienced for a
long time, and, on awakening, her mind was
more tranquil and resigned than it had been
since St. Aubert's death.

But when the moment of her departure
from the convent arrived, all her grief re-
turned : the memory of the dead, and the
kindness of the living, attached her to th^
place ; and for the sacred spot where her
father's remains were interred, she seemed to
feel all those tender affections which we
conceive for home. The abbess repeated
many kind assurances of regard at their
parting, and pressed her to return, if ever
she should find her condition elsewhere
unpleasant : many of the nuns also express-
ed unaffected regret at her departure 5 and
Emily left the convent with many tears, and
followed by sincere wishes for her happiness.

She had travelled several leagues, before
the scenes of the country through which she
passed had power to rouse her for a moment
from the deep melancholy into which she
was sunk ; and when they did, it was only to
remind her, that, on her last view of them,
St. Aubert was at her side, and to call up to
her remembrance the remarks he had deli
vered on similar scenery. Thus, without
any particular occurrence, passed the day
in languor and dejection. She slept thav
night at a town on the skirts of Languedoc,
and on the following morning, entered Gas-
cony.

Towards the close of this day, Emily
came within view of the plains in the neigh-
bourhood of La Vallee, and the well-known
objects of former times began to press upon
her notice, and with them, recollections that
awakened all her tenderness and grief. Of-
ten, while she looked through her tears upon
the wild grandeur of the Pyrenees, now
varied with the rich lights and shadows of
evening, she remembered that when last she
saw them, her father partook with her of
the pleasure they inspired. Suddenly some
scene which he had particularly pointed out
to her would present itself, and the sick
languor of despair would steal upon her
heart. " There !" she would exclaim —
"there are the very cliffs, there the wood of
pines, which he looked at with such delight
as we passed this road together for the last
time ! There, too, under the crag of that
mountain, is the cottage, peeping from
among the cedars which he bade me remem
ber, and copy with my pencil ! O, my fa
ther, shall I never see you more !"

As she drew near the chateau, these me
lancholy memorials of past times multiplied
At length the chateau itself appeared, amid
the glowing beauty of St. Aubert's favourite
landscape. This was an object which called
for fortitude, not for tears : Emily dried
her*s, and prepared to meet with calmness
the trying moment of her return to that
home where there was no longer a parent to
welcome her. " Yes," said she ; " let me
not forget the lessons he has taught me !

46

THE MYSTERIES OF UBOLPHO

How often he has pointed ont the necessity
of resisting even virtuous sorrow ! how of-
ten we have admired together the greatness
of a mind that can at once suffer and rea-
son ! O my father ! if you are permitted to
look down upon your child, it will please
you to see, that she remembers, and endea-
vours to practise, the precepts you have
given her."

A turn on the road now allowed a nearer
view of the chateau ; the chimneys, tipped
with light, rising from behind St. Aubert's
favourite oaks, whose foliage partly con-
cealed the lower part of the building.
Emily could not suppress a heavy sigh.
" This too was his favourite hour !" said she,
as she gazed upon the long evening shadows
stretched athwart the landscape. "How
deep the repose ! how lovely the scene ! —
lovely and tranquil as in former days !"

Again she resisted the pressure of sorrow,
till her ear caught the gay melody of the
dance, which she had so often listened to, as
she walked with St. Aubert on the margin of
the Garonne ; when all her fortitude forsook
her ; and she continued to weep till the car-
riage stopped at the little gate that opened
upon what was now her own territory. She
raised her eyes on the sudden stopping of
the carriage, and saw her father's old house-
keeper coming to open the gate. Manchon
also came running and barking before her ;
and when his young mistress alighted, fawn-
ed and played round her, gasping with joy.

"Dear ma'amselle !" said Theresa, and
paused, and looked as* if she would have
offered something of condolement to Emily,
whose tears now prevented reply. The dog
still fawned and ran round her, and then
flew towards the carriage with a short,
quick bark. "Ah, ma'amselle! my poor
master !" said Theresa, whose feelings were
more awakened than her delicacy ; " Man-
chon's gone to look for him." Emily sobbed
aloud ; and on looking towards the carriage,
which still stood with the door open, saw the
animal spring into it, and instantly leaped
out, and then, with his nose on the ground,
run round the horses.

" Don't cry so, ma'amselle," said Theresa;
" it breaks my heart to see you." The dog
now came running to Emily, then returned
to the carriage, and then back again to her,
whining and discontented. " Poor rogue !"
said Theresa, " thou hast lost thy master—
thou mayst well cry ! But come, my dear
young lady, be comforted. What shall J
get to refresh you ?" Emily gave her hand
to the old servant, and tried to restrain her
grief, while she made some kind inquiries
concerning her health. But she still linger-
ed in the walk which led to the chateau—
for within was no person to meet her with
the kiss of affection : her own heart no
longer palpitated with impatient jo# to

meet again the well known smile ; und she
dreaded to see objects which would recall
the full remembrance of her former hap-
piness. She moved slowly towards the door,
paused, went on, and paused again. How
silent, how forsaken, how forlorn, did the
chateau appear ! Trembling to enter it,
yet blaming herself for delaying what she
could not avoid, she at length passed into
the hall, crossed it with a hurried step, as it
afraid to look round, and opened the door of
that room which she was wont to call her
own. The gloom of evening gave solemnity
to its silent and deserted air. The chairs,
the tables, every article of furniture, so fa-
miliar to her in happier times, spoke elo-
quently to her heart. She seated herself,
without immediately observing it, in a win-
dow which opened upon the garden, and
where St. Aubert had often sat with her,
watching the sun retire from the rich and
extensive prospect that appeared beyond the
groves.

Having indulged her tears for some time,
she became more composed ; and when The-
resa, after seeing the baggage deposited in
her lady's room, again appeared, she had <o
far recovered her spirits as to be able to
converse with her.

" I have made up the green bed for you,
ma'amselle," said Theresa, as she set the
coffee upon the table : " I thought you
would like it better than your own now ;
but I little thought this day month that you
would come back alone. A-well-a-day ! the
news almost broke my heart when it did
come. Who would have believed, that my
poor master, when he went from home,
would never return again !" Emily hid her
face with her handkerchief, and waved hei
hand.

"Do taste the coffee,*' said Theresa.
" My dear young lady, be comforted— we
must all die. My dear master is a saint
above." Emily took the handkerchief from
her face, and raised her eyes, full of tears,
towards heaven. Soon after she dried them;
and, in a calm but tremulous voice, began
to inquire concerning some of her late fa
ther's pensioners.

" Alas-a-day !" said Theresa, as she pour
ed out the coffee, and handed it to her mis-
tress, " all that could come have been here
every day to inquire after you and my mas-
ter." She then proceeded to tell, that some
were dead whom they had left well ; and
others, who were ill, had recovered. " And
see, ma'amselle," added Theresa ; " there is
old Mary coming up the garden now : she
has looked every day these three years as if
she would die, yet she is alive still. She
has seen the chaise at the door, and knows
you are come home."

The sight of this poor old woman would
have been too much for Emily, and the

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOJLPHO

47

begged Theresa would go and tell her, that
she was too ill to see any person that night.
" To-morrow I shall be better, perhaps ; but
give her this token of my remembrance."

Emily sat for some time, given up to sor-
row. Not an object on which her eye
glanced, but awakened some remembrance
that led immediately to the subject of her
grief. Her favourite plants, which St. Au-
bert had taught her to nurse; the little
drawings that adorned the room, which his
taste had instructed her to execute; the
books that he had selected for her use, and
which they had read together ; her musical
instruments, whose sounds he loved so well,
and which he sometimes awakened himself
— every object gave new force to sorrow.
At length she roused herself from this me-
lancholy indulgence, and summoning all her
resolution, stepped forward to go into those
forlorn rooms which, though she dreaded to
enter, she knew would yet more powerfully
affect her if she delayed to visit them.

Having passed through the green-house,
her courage for a moment forsook her when
she opened the door of the library ; and,
perhaps, the shade which evening and the
foliage of the trees near the windows threw
across the room, heightened the solemnity of
her feelings on entering that apartment,
where every thing spoke of her father.
Hiere was an arm-chair in which he used to
sit : she shrunk when she observed it ; for
she had so often seen him seated there, and
the idea of him rose so distinctly to her
mind, that she almost fancied she saw him
before her. But she checked the illusions of
a distempered imagination, though she could
not subdue a certain degree of awe, which
now mingled with her emotions. She walked
slowly to the chair, and seated herself in it.
There was a reading-desk before it, on which
lay a book, open as it had been left by her
father. It was some moments before she
recovered courage enough to examine it ;
and when she looked at the open page, she
immediately recollected that St. Aubert, on
the evening before his departure from the
chateau, had read to her some passages from
this his favourite author. The circum-
stance now affected her extremely : she
looked at the page, wept, and looked again.
To her the book appeared sacred and inva-
luable ; and she would not have moved it,
or closed the page which he had left open,
for the treasures of the Indies. Still she sat
before. the desk; and could not resolve to
emit it, though the increasing gloom, and
the profound silence of the apartment, re-
vived a degree of painful awe. Her thoughts
dwelt on the probable state of departed spi-
rits ; and she remembered the affecting con-
versation which had passed between St. Au-
bert and La Voisin, on the night preceding
his death.

As she mused, she saw the door slowly
open ; and a rustling sound in a remote
part of the room startled her. Through the
dusk she thought she perceived something
move. The subject she had been consider-
ing, and the present tone of her spirits,
which made her imagination respond to
every impression of her senses, gave her a
sudden terror of something supernatural.
She sat for a moment motionless ; and then,
her dissipated reason returning, " What
should I fear ?" said she : " if the spirits of
those we love ever return to us, it is in
kindness."

The silence which again reigned, made
her ashamed of her late fears ; and she be-
lieved that her imagination had deluded her,
or that she had heard one of those un-
accountable noises which sometimes occur
in old houses. The same sound, however,
returned ; and, distinguishing something
moving towards her, and in the next instant
press beside her into the chair, she shrieked;
but her fleeting senses were instantly recall-
ed, on perceiving that it was Manchon who
sat by her, and who now licked her hands
affectionately.

Perceiving her spirits unequal to the task
she had assigned herself, of visiting the de-
serted rooms of the chateau this night, when
she left the library she walked into the gar-
den, and down to the terrace that overhung
the river. The sun was now set ; but, un-
der the dark branches of the almond trees,
was seen the saffron glow of the west,
spreading beyond the twilight of middle air.
The bat flitted silently by ; and now and
then, the mourning note of the nightingale
was heard. The circumstances of the hour
brought to her recollection some lines which
she had once heard St. Aubert recite on this
very spot, and she had now a melancholy
pleasure in repeating them.

SONNET

Now the bat circles on the breeze of eve,

That creeps, in shudd'ring fits, along the wave,
And trembles 'mid the woods, and thro' the cave,

Whose lonely sighs the wanderer deceive ,

For oft, when melancholy charms his mind,
He thinks the Spirit of the rock he hears,
Nor listens, but with sweetly-thrilling fears,

To the low, mystic murmurs of the wind !

Now the bat circles ; and the twilight dew
Falls silent round, and o'er the mountain-clift,
The gleaming wave, and far-discover'd skiff,

Spreads the grey veil of soft, harmonious hue.

So falls o'er grief the dew of Pity's tear,
Dimming her lonely visions of despair.

Emily, wandering on, came to St. Aubert'*
favourite plane-tree, where so often, at this
hour, they had sat beneath the shade toge-
ther, and with her dear mother so often had
conversed on the subject of a future state.
How often, too, had her father expressed the
comfort he derived from believing that they
should meet in another world! Emily,

48

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOiJPHO.

overcome by these recollections, left the
plane-tree, and, as she leaned pensively on
the wall of the terrace, she observed a group
of peasants dancing gaily on the banks of
the Garonne, which spread in broad expanse
oclow, and reflected the evening light.
»Vhat a contrast they formed to the desolate,
unhappy Emily! They were gay, and de-
bonnaire, as they were wont to be when she,
too, was gay — when St. Aubertused to listen
to their merry music, with a countenance
beaming pleasure and benevolence. Emily,
having looked for a moment on this sprightly
band, turned away, unable to bear the re-
membrances it excited; but where, ala*!
could she turn, and not meet new objects . >
give acuteness to grief!

As she walked slowly towards the house,
she was met by Theresa. "Dear ma'amselle,"
said she, " I have been seeking you up and
down this half hour, and was afraid some
accident had happened to you. How can
you like to wander about so in this night
air! Do come into the house. Think what
my poor master would have said, if he could
see you. I am sure, when my dear lady
died, no gentleman could take it more to
heart than he did ; yet you know he seldom
shed a tear."

" Pray, Theresa, cease," said Emily, wish-
ing to interrupt this ill-judged but well-
meaning harangue. Theresa's loquacity how-
ever, was not to be silenced so easily. " And
when you used to grieve so," she added,
"he often told you how wrong it was — for
that my mistress was happy. And, if she
was happy, I am sure he is so too ; for the
prayers of the poor, they say, reach heaven."
During this speech, Emily had walked
silently into the chateau, and Theresa lighted
her across the hall into the common sitting
parlour, where she had laid the cloth, with
one solitary knife and fork, for supper.
Emily was in the room before she perceived
that it was not her own apartment •, but she
checked the emotion which inclined her to
leave it, and seated herself quietly by the
little supper table. Her father's hat hung:
upon the opposite wall : while she gazed at
it, a faintness came over her. Theresa looked
at her, and then at the object on which her
eyes were settled, and went to remove it ;
but Emily waved her hand. — " No," said she,
" let it remain. I am going to my chamber."
" Nay, ma'amselle, supper is ready." "I
cannot take it," replied Emily : " I will go
to my room, and try to sleep. To-morrow
I shall be better."

" This is poor doings !" said Theresa.
" Dear lady ! do take some food ! I have
dressed a pheasant, and a fine one it is.
Old Monsieur Barreaux sent it this morn-
ing, for I saw him yesterday, and told him
you were coming ; and I know nobody that

seemed more concerned, when he heard the
sad news, than he."

" Did he ?" said Emily, in a tender voice,
while she felt her poor heart warmed for a
moment by a ray of sympathy.

At length her spirits were entirely over-
come, and she retired to her room.

CHAP. X.

u Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye,
Can Painting's glowing hand, supply
A charm so suited to my mind,
As blows this hollow gust of wind;
As drops this little weeping rill,
Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill;
While, thro' the west, where sinks the crimson day,
Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners
gray]" MASON,

Emily, some time after her return to La
Vallee, received letters from her aunt,
Madame Cheron, in which, after some com-
mon-place condolement and advice, she
invited her to Thoulouse, and added, that,
as her late brother had entrusted Emily's
education to her, she should consider herself
bound to overlook her conduct. Emily, at
this time, wished only to remain at La
Vallee, in the scenes of her early happiness,
now rendered infinitely dear to her, as the
late residence of those whom she had lost
for ever ; where she could weep unobserved,
retrace their steps, and remember each mi.
nute particular of their manners. But she
was equally anxious to avoid the displeasure
of Madame Cheron.

Though her affection would not suffer her
to question, even for a moment, the pro-
priety of St. Aubert's conduct in appointing
Madame Cheron for her guardian, she was
sensible that this step had made her happi-
ness depend, in a great degree, on the hu-
mour of her aunt. In her reply, she beg-
ged pel-mission to remain, at present, at La
Vallee; mentioning the extreme dejection of
her spirits, and the necessity she felt for
quiet and retirement to restore them. These
she knew were not to be found at Madame
Cheron's, whose inclinations led her into
a life of dissipation, which her ample for-
tune encouraged. And, having given her
answer, she felt somewhat more at ease.

In the first days of her affliction she was
visited by Monsieur Barreaux, a sincere
mourner for St. Aubert. " I may well
lament my friend," said he, " for I shall
never meet with his resemblance! If 1
could have found such a man in what is
called society, 1 should not have left it."

M. Barreaux's admiration of her father
endeared him extremely to Emily j whose
heart found almost its first relief in convcr
sing of her parents with a man whom she
so much revered, and who, though with
such an ungracious appearance, possessed
so much goodness of heart and delicacy of
mind.

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

49

Several weeks passed away in quiet retire-
ment, and Emily's affliction began to soften
into melancholy. She could bear to read the
books she had before read with her father —
to sit in his chair in the library — to watch the
flowers his hand had planted — to awaken the
tones of that instrument his fingers had press-
ed, and sometimes even to play his favourite
air.

When her mind had recovered from the
first shock of affliction, perceiving' the dan-
ger of yielding to indolence, and that activi-
ty alone could restore its tone, she scrupu-
iously endeavoured to pass all her hours in
employment. And it was now that she un-
derstood the full value of the education she
had received from St. Aubert — for, in culti-
vating her understanding, he had secured her
an asylum from indolence without recourse
to dissipation, and rich and varied amuse-
ment and information independent of the so-
ciety from which her situation secluded her.
Nor were the good effects of this education
confined to selfish advantages ; since, St.
Aubert having nourished every amiable qua-
lity of her heart, it now expanded in benevo-
ience to all around her, and taught her,
when she could not remove the misfortunes
of others, at least to soften them by sympa-
thy and tenderness — a benevolence that
taught her to feel for all that could suffer.

Madame Cheron returned no answer to
Emily's letter *, who began to hope that she
should be permitted to remain some time
longer in her retirement ; and her mind had
now so far recovered its strength, that she
ventured to view the scenes which most pow-
erfully recalled the images of past times.
Among these was the fishing-house ; and to
indulge still more the affectionate melancho-
ly of the visit, she took thither her lute, that
she might again hear there the tones to
which St. Aubert and her mother had so of-
ten delighted to listen. She went alone, and
at that still hour of the evening which is so
soothing to fancy and to grief. The last
time she had been here she was in company
with Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert, a
few days preceding that on which the latter
was seized with a fatal illness : now, when
Emily again entered the woods that sur-
rounded the building, they awakened so for-
cibly the memory of former times, that her
resolution yielded for a moment to excess of
grief: she stopped, leaned for support against
a tree, and wept for some minutes before she
had recovered herself sufficiently to proceed.
The little path that led to the building was
&vergrown with grass, and the flowers which
St. Aubert had scattered carelessly along the
border were almost choked with weeds — the
tall thistle, the foxglove, and the nettle. She
often paused to look on the desolate spot,
iow so silent and forsaken ! — and when, w ith
* trembling hand, she opened the door of the

fishing-house, "Ah!" said she, M everything,
every thing remains as when I left it last-
left it with those who never must return!**
She went to a window that overhung the ri-
vNdet, and, leaning over it, with her eyes
fixed on the current, was soon lost in melan-
choly reverie. The lute she had brought lay
forgotten beside her : the mournful sighing
of the breeze as it waved the high pine?
above, and its softer whispers among th
osiers that bowed upon the banks below, was
a kind of music more in unison with her
feelings: it did not vibrate on the chords of
unhappy memory, but was soothing to the
heart as the voice of pity. She continued to
muse, unconscious of the gloom of evening,
and that the sun's last light trembled on the
heights above; and would probably have re-
mained so much longer, if a sudden footstep
without the building had not alarmed her at-
tention, and first made her recollect that she
was unprotected. In the next moment the
door opened, and a stranger appeared ; who
stopped on perceiving Emily, and then be-
gan to apologise for his intrusion. But
Emily, at the sound of his voice, lost her fear
in a stronger emotion : its tones were fami-
liar to her ear, and though she could not rea-
dily distinguish through the dusk the fea-
tures of the person who spoke, she felt a
remembrance too strong to be distrusted.

He repeated his apology, and Emily then
said something in reply ; when the stranger,
eagerly advancing, exclaimed, " Good God !
can it be? — surely I am not mistaken— <-
Ma'amselle St. Aubert? — is it not?"

" It is indeed," said Emily; who was con-
firmed in her first conjecture, for she now
distinguished the countenance of Valancourt,
lighted up with still more than its usual ani
mation. A thousand painful recollections
crowded to her mind ; and the effort which
she made to support herself only served to
increase her agitation. Valancourt, mean-
while, having inquired anxiously after her
health, and expressed his hopes that M. St.
Aubert had found benefit from travelling,
learned, from the flood of tears which she
could no longer repress, the fatal truth. He
led her to a seat, and sat down by her, while
Emily continued to weep, and Valancourt to
hold the hand whifch she was unconscious he
had taken, till it was wet with the tears
which grief for St. Aubert, and sympathy for
herself, had called forth.

" I feel," said he at length, " I feel how in-
sufficient all attempt at consolation must be
on this subject : I can only mourn with you;
for I cannot doubt the source of your tears.
Would to God I were mistaken!"

Emily could still answer only by tears, till
she rose, and begged they might leave the
melancholy spot, when Valancourt, though
he saw her feebleness, could not offer to fir-
tain her, but took her arm within his, and te4
K

so

THE Mf SERIES OF ULOLPHO

her from the fishing-house. They walked
silently through the woods ; Valancourt
anxious to know, yet fearing to ask, any
particulars concerning St. Aubert, and Emi-
ly too much distressed to converse. After
some time, however, she acquired fortitude
enough to speak of her father, and to give a
brief account of the manner of his death ;
during which recital, Valancourt's counte-
nance betrayed strong emotion ; and when he
heard that St. Aubert had died on the road, and
that Emily had been left among strangers,
he pressed her hand between his, and invo-
luntarily exclaimed, "Why was I not there !"
but in the next moment recollected himself,
for he immediately returned to the mention
of her father; till, perceiving that her spirits
were exhausted, he gradually changed the
subject, and spoke of himself. Emily thus
learned, that, after they had parted, he had
wandered for some time along the shores of
the Mediterranean, and had then returned
through Languedoc into Gascony, which
was his native province, and where he usu-
ally resided.

When he had concluded his little narra-
tive, he sunk into a silence which Emily was
not disposed to interrupt, and it continued
till they reached the gate of the chateau,
when he stopped, as if he had known this to
be the limit of his walk. Here, saying that
it was his intention to return to Estuviere on
the following day, he asked her if she would
permit him to take leave of her in the morn-
ing ; and Emily, perceiving that she could
not reject an ordinary civility without ex-
pressing by her refusal an expectation of
something more, was compelled to answer
that she should be at home-
She passed a melancholy evening, during
which the retrospect of all that had happen-
ed since she had seen Valancourt would rise
to her imagination, and the scene of her fa-
ther's death appeared in tints as fresh as if
it had passed on the preceding day. She re-
membered particularly the earnest and so-
lemn manner in which he had required her
to destroy the manuscript papers ; and,
awakened from the lethargy in which sorrow
had held her, she was shocked to think she
had not yet obeyed him, and determined that
another day should not reproach her with
the neglect.

CHAP. XI.

Can such things be,

And overcome us like a summer's cloud,
Without our special wonder!"

MACBETH.

Ox the next morning, Emily ordered a
fire to be lighted in the stove of the chamber
where St. Aubert used to sleep, and, as soon
as she had breakfasted, went thither to burn
the papers. Having fastened the door to
prevent interruption, she opened the closet
where they were concealed ; as she entered
which, she felt an emotion of unusual awe,

and stood for some moments surveying it,
trembling, and almost afraid to remove the
board. There was a great chair in one cor.
ner of the closet, and opposite to it stood the
table at which she had seen'her father sit, on
the evening that preceded his departure,
looking over, with so much emotion, what
she believed to be these very papers.

The solitary life which Emily had led of
late, and the melancholy subjects on which
she had suffered her thoughts to dwell, had
rendered her at times sensible to the * thick -
coming fancies' of a mind greatly enervated.
. It was lamentable, that her excellent under-
standing should have yielded, even for a mo-
ment, to the reveries of superstition, or ra-
ther to those starts of imagination which de-
ceive the senses into what can be called no-
thing less than momentary madness. In-
stances of this temporary failure of mind had
more than once occurred since her return
home; particularly when, wandering through
this lonely mansion in the evening twilight,
she had been alarmed by appearances which
would have been unseen in her more cheerful
days. To this infirm state of her nerves may
be attributed what she imagined, when, her
eyes glancing a second time on the arm-
chair, which stood in an obscure part of the
closet, the countenance of her dead father
appeared there. Emily stood fixed for a mo-
ment to the floor ; after which she left the
closet. Her spirits, however, soon returned ;
she reproached herself with the weakness of
thus suffering interruption in an act of seri-
ous importance, and again opened the door.
By the directions which St. Aubert had given
her, she readily fonnd the board he had de-
scribed, in an opposite corner of the closet,
near the window : she distinguished also the
line he had mentioned; and pressing it as he
had bade her, it slid down, and disclosed the
bundle of papers, together wjth some scat,
tered ones,and the purseof louis. With a trem-
bling hand she removed them— replaced the
board — paused a moment — and was rising
from the floor, when, on looking up, there
appeared to her alarmed fancy the same
countenance in the chair. The illusion (ano-
ther instance of the unhappy effect which so-
litude and grief had gradually produced upon
her mind) subdued her spirits: she rushed
forward into the chamber, and sunk almost
senseless into a chair. Returning reason
soon overcame the dreadful, but pitiable, at-
tack of imagination, and she turned to the
papers ; though still with so little recollection,
that her eyes involuntarily settled on the
writing of some loose sheets which lay open,
and she was unconscious that she was trans-
gressing her father's strict injunction, till a
sentence of dreadful import awakened her at-
tention and her memory together. She hasti-
ly put the papers from her; but the words
which had roused equally her curiosity and

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

51

terror, b]\e could not dismiss from her
thoughts. So powerfully had they affected
h< r, that she even could not resolve to de-
stroy the papers immediately ; and the mora
she dwelt on the circumstance, the more it
iutiamed her imagination. Urged by the
most forcible, and apparently the most ne-
cessary, curiosity to inquire further, con-
cerning the terrible and mysterious subject
to which she had seen an allusion, she began
to lament her promise to destroy the papers.
For a moment she even doubted whether it
could justly be obeyed, in contradiction to
such reasons as there appeared to be for
further information ; but the delusion was
momentary : " I have given a solemn pro-
mise," said she, u to observe a solemn in-
junction, and it is not my business to argue,
but to obey. Let me hasten to remove the
temptation that would destroy my inno-
cence and embitter my life with the consci-
ousness of irremediable guilt, while I have
strength to reject it."

Thus reianimated with a sense of her
duty, she completed the triumph of integrity
over temptation more forcible than any she
Had ever known, and consigned the papers
to the flames. Her eyes watched them as
they slowly consumed : she shuddered at the
recollection of the sentence she had just
seen, and at the certainty that the only
opportunity of explaining it was then pass-
ing away for ever.

It was long after this that she recollected
the purse 5 and as she was depositing it, un-
opened, in a cabinet, perceiving that it
contained something of a size larger than
coin, she examined it. " His hand deposit-
ed them here," said she, as she kissed some
pieces of the coin, and wetted them with
her tears — " his hand, which is now dust P*
At the bottom of the purse was a small
packet ; which having taken out, and un-
folded paper after paper, she found to be an
ivory case, containing the miniature of a —
lady ! She started. " The same," said she,
" my father wept over !" On examining the
countenance, she could recollect no person
that it resembled : it was of uncommon
beauty 5 and was characterised by an ex,,
pression of sweetness, shaded with sorrow,
and tempered by resignation,

St. Aubcrt had given no directions con-
cerning this picture, nor had even named it;
she therefore thought herself justified in pre-
serving it. More than once remembering
his manner, when he had spoken of the
Marchioness of Villeroi, she felt inclined to
believe that this was her resemblance ; yet
there appeared no reason ,why he should
have preserved a picture of"~that lady, or,
naving preserved if, why he should lament
over it in a manner so striking and affect-
ing as she had witnessed on the night pre-
ceding his departure.

Emily still gazed on the countenance, ex-
amining its features ; but she knew no.f
where to detect the charm that captivateu
her attention, and inspired sentiments o*
such love and pity. Dark brown hair play
ed carelessly along the open forehead ; the
nose was rather inclined to aquiline ; the
lips spoke in a smile, but it was a melan-
choly one ; the eyes were blue, and were di-
rected upwards, with an expression of pecu-
liar meekness ; while the soft cloud of the
brow spoke the fine sensibility of the tem-
per.

Emily was roused from the musing mood
into which the picture had thrown her, by
the closing of the garden gate •, and, on
turning her eyes to the window,- she saw Va-
lancourt coming towards the chateau. Her
spirits, agitated by tbe subjects that had
lately occupied her mind, she felt unprepar-
ed to see him, and remained a few moments
in the chamber to recover herself.

When she met him in the parlour, she
was struck with the change that appeared
in his air and countenance since they had
parted in Rousillon, which twilight, and the
distress she suffered on the preceding even-
ing, had prevented her from observing. But
dejection and languor disappeared for a mo-
ment, in the smile that now enlightened his
countenance oh perceiving her. " You see,"
said he, " I have availed myself of the per
mission with which you honoured me— of
bidding you farewell, whom I had the hap-
piness of meeting only yesterday,"

Emily smiled faintly, and anxious to say
something, asked if he had been long in Gas-
cony. " A few days only," replied Valan-
court, while a blush passed over his cheek.
" I engaged in a long ramble after I had the
misfortune of parting with the friends who
had made my wanderings among the Pyre^
nees so delightful."

A tear came to Emily's eyes as Valaa.
court said this, which he observed, and anxi-
ous to draw off her attention from the re-
membrance of that which had occasioned it,
as well as shocked at his own thoughtless-
ness!, he began to speak on other subjects,
expressing his admiration of the chateau
and its prospects. Emily, who felt some-
what embarrassed how to support a conveiv
sation, was glad of such an opportunity to
continue it on different topics. They walk-
ed down to the terrace, where Valancourt
was charmed with the river scenery, and
the views over the opposite shores of Gui-
enne.

As he leaned on the wall of the terrace,
watching the rapid current of the Garonne,
w I was a few weeks ago," said he, " at the
source of this noble river ; I had not then
the happiness of knowing you, or I should
have regretted your absence — it was a scene
so exactly suited to your taste* It rises in

f>2

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

a part of the Pyrenees, still wilder and more
sublime, I think, than any we passed in
the way to Rousillon." He then describ-
ed its fall among the precipices of the moun-
tains, where its waters, augmented by the
streams that descend from the snowy sum-
mits around it, rush into the Vallee d'Aran;
between those romantic heights it foams
along, pursuing its way to the north-west,
till it emerges upon the plains of Langue-
doc : then, washing the walls of Thoulouse,
and turning again to the north-west, it as-
sumes a milder character, as it fertilizes the
pastures of Gascony and Guienne, in its pro-
gress to the Bay of Biscay.

Emily and Valancourt talked of the scenes
they had passed among the Pyrenean Alps ;
as he spoke of which there was often a tre-
mulous tenderness in his voice ; and some-
times he expatiated on them with all the
fire of genius — sometimes would appear
scarcely conscious of the topic, though he
continued to speak. This subject recalled
forcibly to Emily the idea of her father,
whose image appeared in every landscape
which Valancourt particularised, whose re-
marks dwelt upon her memory, and whose
enthusiasm still glowed in her heart. Her
silence, at length, reminded Valancourt how
nearly his conversation approached to the
occasion of her grief, and he changed the
subject, though for one scarcely less affect-
ing to Emily. When he admired the gran-
deur of the plane-tree, that spread its wide
branches over the terrace, and under whose
shade they now sat, she remembered how
often she had sat thus with St. Aubert, and
heard him express the same admiration.

" This was a favourite tree with my dear
father," said she : " he used to love to sit
under its foliage, with his family about him,
in the fine evenings of summer."

Valancourt understood her feelings, and
was silent : had she raised her eyes from the
ground, she would have seen tears in his.
He rose, and leaned on the wall of the ter~
race ; from which, in a few moments, he re-
turned to his seat *, then rose again, and ap-
peared to be greatly agitated ; while Emily
found her spirits so much depressed, that
several of her attempts to renew the conver-
sation were ineffectual. Valancourt again
sat down ; but was still silent, and trembled.
At length he said, with a hesitating voice,
" This lovely scene I am going to leave ! —
to leave you — perhaps for ever ! These mo-
ments may never return ! I cannot resolve
to neglect, though I scarcely dare to avail
myself of them. Let me, however, without
offending the delicacy of your sorrow, ven-
ture to declare the admiration I must al-
ways feel of your goodness — O ! that at
some future period I might be permitted to
call it love%"

Emily's emotion would not suffer her to
reply ; and Valancourt, who now ventured
to look up, observing her countenance
change, expected to see her faint, and made
an involuntary effort to support her, which
recalled Emily to a sense of her situation,
and to an exertion of her spirits. Valan-
court did not appear to notice her indisposi-
tion, but when he spoke again, his voice told
the tendcrest love. " I will not presume,"
he added, " to intrude this subject longer
upon your attention at this time ; but I
may, perhaps, be permitted to mention, that
these parting moments would lose much of
their bitterness, if I might be allowed to
hope the declaration I have made would not
exclude me from your presence in future."

Emily made another effort to overcome
the confusion of her thoughts, and to speak.
She feared to trust the preference her heart
acknowledged towards Valancourt, and to
give him any encouragement for hope on so
short an acquaintance ; for though, in this
narrow period, she had observed much that
was admirable in his taste and disposition,
and though these observations had been
sanctioned by the opinion of her father, they
were not sufficient testimonies of his gene-
ral worth, to determine her upon a subject
so infinitely important to her future happi-
ness as that which now solicited her atten-
tion. Yet, though the thought of dismiss-
ing Valancourt was so very painful to her,
that she could scarcely endure to pause upon
it, the consciousness of this made her fear
the partiality of her judgment, and hesitate
still more to encourage that suit, for which
her own heart too tenderly pleaded. The fa-
mily of Valancourt, if not his circumstances,
had been known to her father, and known
to be unexceptionable. Of his circumstances,
Valancourt himself hinted, as far as delicacy
would permit, when he said he had at pre-
sent little else to offer but a heart that
adored her. He had solicited only for a dis-
tant hope ; and she could not resolve to for-
bid, though she scarcely dared to permit it.
At length, she acquired courage to say, that
she must think herself honoured by the good
opinion of any person whom her father had
esteemed.

" And was I, then, thought worthy of his
esteem ?" said Valancourt, in a voice trem
bling with anxiety. Then checking himself,
he added, " But pardon the question ; I
scarcely know what I say. If I might dare
to hope that you think me not unworthy
such honour, and might be permitted some-
times to inquire after your health, I should
now leave you with comparative tranquil-
lity."

Emily, after a moment's silence, said, " I
will be ingenuous with you, for I know you
will understand and allow for my situation j

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

*3

you will consider it as a proof of my — my
esteem that I am so. Though I live here in
what was my father's house, I live here
alone. I have, alas ! no longer a parent— a
parent, whose presence might sanction your
visits. It is unnecessary for me to point out
the impropriety of my receiving them."

"Nor will I affect to be insensible of
this," replied Valancourt, adding mourn-
fully— " but what is to console me for my
candour ? — I distress you j and would now
leave the subject, if I might carry with me
a hope of being some time permitted to re-
new it-— of being allowed to make myself
known to your family."

Emily was again confused, and again he-
sitated what to reply. She felt most acutely
the difficulty — the forlornness of her situa-
tion—which did not allow her a single rela-
tive, or friend, to whom she could turn for
even a look that might support and guide
her in the present embarrassing circum-
stances. Madame Cheron, who was her
only relative, and ought to have been this
friend, was either occupied by her own
amusements, or so resentful of the reluc-
tance her niece had shewn to quit La Vallee,
that she seemed totally to have abandoned
her.

"Ah! I see," said Valancourt, after a
long pause, during which Emily had begun
and left unfinished two or three sentences—
* I see that I have nothing to hope : my
fears were too just — you think me unworthy
of your esteem. That fatal journey ! which
I considered as the happiest period of my
life— those delightful days, were to embitter
all my future ones ! How often I have
looked back to them with hope and fear ! —
yet never till this moment could 1 prevail
with myself to regret their enchanting influ-
ence."

His voice faltered, and he abruptly quit-
ted his seat and walked on the terrace.
There was an expression of despair on his
countenance that affected Emily. The
pleadings of her heart overcame, in some
degree, her extreme timidity ; and when he
resumed his seat, she said in an aceent that
betrayed her tenderness, " You do both
yourself and me injustice, when you say I
think you unworthy qf my esteem : 1 will
acknowledge that you have long possessed
it, and — and — "

Valancourt waited impatiently for the
conclusion of the sentence, but the words
died on her lips. Her eyes, however, reflect-
ed all the emotions of her heart. Valan-
court passed, in an instant, from the impa-
tience of despair, to that of joy and tender-
ness. " O Emily !" he exclaimed, " my
own Emily — teach me to sustain this mo-
ment ! Let me seal it as the most sacred of
my life !"

He pressed her hand to his lips ; it was
cold and trembling ; and, raising his eyes,
he saw the paleness of her countenance.
Tears came to her relief, and Valancourt
watched in anxious silence over her. In a
few moments she recovered herself, and
smiling faintly through her tears, said,
" Can you excuse this weakness ? My spi-
rits have not yet, I believe, recovered from
the shock they lately received."

" I cannot excuse myself," said Valan-
court. " But I will forbear to renew the
subject which may have contributed to agfc
tate them, now that I can leave you with
the sweet certainty of possessing your es-
teem."

Then, forgetting his resolution, he again
spoke of himself. " You know not," said
he, " the many anxious hours I have passed
near you lately, when you believed me, if
indeed you honoured me with a thought, far
away. I have wandered near the chateau,
in the still hours of the night, when no eye
could observe me. It was delightful to
know I was so near you ; and there was
something particularly soothing in the
thought, that I watched round your habita
tion while you slept. These grounds are not
entirely new to me. Once I ventured within
the fence, and spent one of the happiest, and
yet most melancholy, hours of my life, in
walking under what I believed to be youi
window."

Emily inquired how long Valancourt had
been in the neighbourhood. " Several days,"
he replied. " It was my design to avail
myself of the permission M. St. Aubert had
given me. I scarcely know how to account
for it ; but, though 1 anxiously wished to do
this, my resolution always failed when the
moment approached, and I constantly de-
ferred my visit. I lodged in a village at
some distance, and wandered, with my dogs,
among the scenes of this charming country,
wishing continually to meet you, yet not
daring to visit you."

Having thus continued to converse, with
out perceiving the flight of time, Valancourt
at length seemed to recollect himself. " I
must go," said he, mournfully — " but it is
with the hope of seeing you again, of being
permitted to pay my respects to your fami-
ly : — let me hear this hope confirmed by
your voice."—" My family will be happy to
see any friend of my dear father," said
Emily. Valancourt kissed her hand, and
still lingered, unable to depart j while
Emily sat silently with her eyes bent on the
ground j and Valancourt, as he gazed on
her, considered that it would soon be im-
possible for him to recal, even to his me-
mory, the exact resemblance of the beautiful
countenance he then beheld. At this mo-
ment a hasty footstep approached from b* -

M

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

hind the plane-tree, and, turning her eyes,
Emily saw Madame Cheron. She felt a
blush stea upon her cheek, and her frame
trembled with the emotion of her mind ; but
she instantly rose to meet her visitor. " So,
niece," said Madame Cheron, casting a look
of surprise and inquiry on Valancourt — " so,
niece ! how do you do ? — but I need not ask
your looks tell me you have almost re-
covered your loss."

" My looks do me injustice then, ma-
dam : my loss, I know, can never be reco-
vered."

« Well, well ! I will not argue with you :
I see you have exactly your father's dispo-
sition ; and let me tell you, it would have
been much happier for him, poor man ! if it
had been a different one."

A look of dignified displeasure, with
which Emily regarded Madame Cheron
while she spoke, would have touched almost
any other heart : she made no other reply ;
but introduced Valancourt, who could
scarcely stifle the resentment he felt, and
whose bow Madame Cheron returned with a
slight curtsey, and a look of supercilious
examination. After a few moments he took
leave of Emily, in a manner that hastily ex-
pressed his pain, both at his own departure,
and at leaving her to the society of Madame
Cheron.

" Who is that young man ?" said her
aunt, in an accent which equally implied in-
quisitiveness and censure : " some idle ad-
mirer of your's, I suppose ? But I believed,
niece, you had a greater sense of propriety,
than to have received the visits of any young
man in your present unfriended situation.
Let me tell you, the world will observe
those things ; and it will talk— aye, and very
freely too."

Emily, extremely shocked at this coarse
speech, attempted to interrupt it; but
Madame Cheron would proceed, with all
the self-importance of a person to whom
power is new.

" It is very necessary, you should be un-
der the eye of some person more able to
guide you than yourself. I, indeed, have
not much leisure for such a task. However,
since your poor father made it his last re-
quest that I should overlook your conduct,
I must even take you under my care. But
this let me tell you, niece, that unless you
will determine to be very conformable to my
direction, I shall not trouble myself longer
about you."

Emily made no attempt to interrupt Ma-
dame Cheron a second time : grief, and the
pride of conscious innocence, kept her si-
lent ; till her aunt said, « I am now come to
take you with me to Thoulouse. I am sorry
to find that your poor father died, after all,
in such indifferent circumstances : how-
ever, I shall take you home with me. Ah!

poor man ! he was always more genei o?v?
than provident, or he would not have left
his daughter dependent on his relations."

" Nor has he done so, I hope, madam/'
said Emily calmly : " nor did his pecuniary
misfortunes arise from that noble generosity
which always distinguished him : the affairs
of M. de Mottevilie, may, I trust, yet be
settled without deeply injuring his creditors,
and in the mean time I should be very
happy to remain at La Vallee "

" No doubt you would," replied Madame
Cheron, with a smile of irony ; " and I
shall no doubt consent to this, since I see
how necessary tranquillity and retirement
are to restore your spirits. I did not think
you capable of so much duplicity, niece.
When you pleaded this excuse for remaining
here, 1 foolishly believed it to be a just one,
nor expected to have found with you so
agreeable a companion as this M. La Val — :
I forget his name."

Emily could no longer endure these cruel
indignities. " It was a just oue, madam,"
said she ; " and now, indeed, I feel more
than ever the value of the retirement I soli-
cited ; and, if the purpose of your visit is
only to add insult to the sorrows of your
brother's child, she could well have spared
it."

" I see that I Jiave undertaken a very
troublesome task," said Madame Cheron,
colouring highly.-— " I am sure, madam,"
said Emily mildly, and endeavouring to re-
strain her tears, " I am sure my father did
not mean it should be such. I have the
happiness to reflect, that my conduct under
his eye, was such as he often delighted to
approve. It would be very painful to me
to disobey the sister of such a parent ; and,
jf you believe the task will really be so
troublesome, 1 must lament that it is
your's."

" Well ! niece, fine speaking signifies
little. I am willing, in consideration of my
poor brother, to overlook the impropriety of
your late conduct, and to try what your fu-
ture will be."

Emily interrupted her, to beg she would
explain what was the impropriety she allud-
ed to.

" What impropriety ! — why that of re-
ceiving the visits of a lover unknown to
your family," replied Madame Cheron ; not
considering the impropriety of which she
had herself been guilty, in exposing her
niece to the possibility of conduct so erro-
neous.

A faint blush passed over Emily's counte-
nance ; pride and anxiety struggled in her
breast; and, tilt she recollected that ap-
pearances did, in some degree, justify her
aunt's suspicions, she could not resolve to
humble herself so far as to enter into the de-
fence of a conduct which had been so inno-

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

5S

rent and undesigning on her part. She
mentioned the manner of Valancourt's intro-
* duction to her father ; the circumstances of
his receiving the pistol-shot, and of their af-
terwards travelling together ; with the acci .
dental way in which she had met him on the
preceding evening. She owned he had de-
clared a partiality for her, and that he had
asked permission to address her family.

" And who is this young adventurer,
pray ?" said Madame Cheron, " and what
are his pretensions ?" — " These he must
himself explain, madam," replied Emily.
w Of his family, my father was not ignorant,
and I believe it is unexceptionable." She
then proceeded to mention what she knew
concerning it.

" O, then, this it seems is a younger bro-
ther !" exclaimed her aunt, u and of course
a beggar. A very fine tale indeed ! And
so my brother took a fancy to this young
man after only a few days* acquaintance !
But that was so like him ! In his youth he
was always taking these likes and dislikes,
when no other person saw any reason for
them at all : nay, indeed, I have often
thought the people he disapproved were
much more agreeable than those he ad-
mired. But there is no accounting for
tastes. He was always so much influenced
by people's countenances ! Now I, for my
part, have no notion of this ; it is all ridi-
culous enthusiasm. What has a man's face
to do with his character ? Can a man of
good character help having a disagreeable
face?" — which last sentence Madame Che-
ron delivered with the decisive air of a per-
son who congratulates herself on having
made a grand discovery, and believes the
question to be unanswerably settled.

Emily, desirous of concluding the conver-
sation, inquired if her aunt would accept
some refreshment ; and Madame Cheron ac-
companied her to the chateau, but without
desisling from a topic which she discussed
*ith so much complacency to herself, and
severity to her niece.

" I am sorry to perceive, neice," said she,
in allusion to somewhat that Emily had
said concerning physiognomy, " that you
nave a great many of your father's preju-
dices, and among them are those sudden
predilections for people from their looks. I
can perceive that you imagine yourself to be
violently in love with this young adventurer
after an acquaintance of only a few days.
There was something too so charmingly ro-
mantic in the manner of your meeting !*'

Emily checked the tears that trembled in
her eyes, while she said, " When my conduct
shall deserve such severity, madam, you will
do well to exercise it : tillihen, justice, if not
tenderness, should surely restrain it. I have
never willingly offended you. Now I have
lost my parents, you are the only person to

whom T can look for kindness : let me not
lament more than ever the loss of such pa
rents." The last words were almost stifled
by her emotions, and she burst into tears
Remembering the delicacy and the tender
ness of St. Aubert, the happy, happy days
she had passed in these scenes; and con-
trasting them with the coarse and unfeel-
ing behaviour of Madame Cheron, and with
the future hours of mortification she must
submit to in her presence — a degree of
grief seized her, that almost reached despair.
Madame Cheron, more offended by the re-
proof which Emily's words conveyed, than
touched by the sorrow they expressed, said
nothing that might soften her grief; but,
notwithstanding an apparent reluctance t«
receive her niece, she desired her company,
The love of sway was her ruling passioi}
and she knew it would be highly gratified by-
taking into her house a young orphan, who
had no appeal from her decisions, and on
whom she could exercise, without controul,
the capricious humour of the moment.

On entering the chateau, Madame Cheron
expressed a desire that she would put up
what she thought necessary to take to Thou-
louse, as she meant to set off immediately.
Emily now tried to persuade her to defer
the journey, at least till the next day, and
at length, with much difficulty, prevailed.

The day passed in the exercise of petty
tyranny on the part of Madame Cheron, and
in mournful regret and melancholy antici-
pation on that of Emily; who, when her
aunt retired to her apartment for the night,
went to take leave of every other room in
this her dear native home, which she was
now quitting, for she knew not how long,
and for a world to which she was wholly a
stranger. She could not conquer a presen-
timent which frequently occurred to her this
night — that she should never more return to
La Vallee. Having passed a considerable
time in what had been her father's study ;
having selected some of his favourite au-
thors, to put up with her clothes, and shed
many tears as she wiped the dust from their
covers ; she seated herself in his chair, be-
fore the reading-desk, and sat lost in me-
lancholy reflection ; till Theresa opened the
door to examine, as was her custom before
she went to bed, if all was safe. She
started on observing her young* lady, who
bade her come in, and then gave her some
directions for keeping the chateau in readi-
ness for her reception at all times.

" Alas-a-day ! that you should leave it V
said Theresa ; " I think you would be hap-
pier here than where you are going, if one
may judge." Emily made no reply to this
remark. The sorrow Theresa proceeded to
express at her departure, affected her ; but
she found some comfort in the simple a flee
tion of this poor old servant, to whom she

f>fl

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

gave such directions as might best conduce
to her comfort during her own absence.

Having dismissed Theresa to bed, Emily
wandered through every lonely apartment
of the chateau, lingering lung in what had
been her father's bed-room, indulging melan-
choly, yet not unpleasing emotions ; and,
having often returned within the door to
take another look at it, she withdrew to her
own chamber, from her window she gazed
upon the garden below shown faintly by the
moon, rising over the tops of the palm-
trees ; and, at length, the calm beauty of
the night increased a desire of indulging the
mournful sweetness of bidding farewell to
the beloved shades of her childhood, till she
was tempted to descend. Throwing over
her the light veil in which she usually walk-
ed, she silently passed into the garden, and,
hastening towards the distant groves, was glad
to breathe once more the air of liberty, and
to sigh unobserved. The deep repose of the
6cene, the rich scents that floated on the
breeze, the grandeur of the wide horizon and
of the clear blue arch, soothed, and gradu-
ally elevated her mind to that sublime com-
placency, which renders the vexations of this
world so insignificant and mean in our eyes,
that we wonder they have had power for a
moment to disturb us. Emily forgot Ma-
dame Cheron and all the circumstances of
her conduct, while her thoughts ascended to
the contemplation of those unnumbered
worlds that lie scattered in the depths of
ether— thousands of them hid from human
eyes, and almost beyond the flight of human
fancy. As her imagination soared through
the regions of space, and aspired to that
Great First Cause which pervades and go-
verns all b%ing, the idea of her father scarce-
ly ever left her ; but it was a pleasing idea,
since she resigned him to God in the full
confidence of a pure and holy faith. She
pursued her way through the groves, to the
terrace, often pausing as memory awakened
the pang of affection, and as reason antici-
pated the exile into which she was going.

And now the moon was high over the
woods, touching their summits with yellow
light, and darting between the foliage long
level beams 5 while, on the rapid Garonne
below, the trembling radiance was faintly
obscured by the lightest vapour. Emily
long watched the playing lustre; listened
to the soothing murmur of the current, and
the yet lighter sounds of the air, as it stirred
at intervals the lofty palm-trees. " How de-
lightful is the sweet breath of these groves !"
said she. " This lovely scene '.—how often
shall I remember and regret it, when I am
far away I Alas ! what events may occur
before I see it again! O, peaceful, happy
shades !— scenes of my infant delights, of
parental tenderness now lost for ever! —
why must I leave ye ? In your retreat* T

should still find safety and repose. Sweet
hours of my childhood — I am now to leave
even your last memorials ! Mo objects that
would revive your impressions will remain
for me !"

Then drying her tears, and looking up,
her thoughts rose again to the sublime sub-
ject she had contemplated : the same divine
complacency stole over her heart, and hush-
ing its throbs, inspired hope and confidence,
and resignation to the will of the Deity,
whose works filled her mind with adora
tion.

Emily gazed long on the plane-tree, and
then seated herself, for the last time, on the
bench, under its shade, where she had so
often sat with her parents, and where, only
a few hours before, she had conversed with
Valancourt ; at the remembrance of whom,
thus revived, a mingled sensation of esteem,
tenderness, and anxiety, rose in her breast.
With this remembrance occurred a recollec-
tion of his late confession — that he had of-
ten wandered near her habitation in the
night, having even passed the boundary of
the garden j and it immediately occurred to
her, that he might be at this moment in the
grounds. The fear of meeting him, particu
larly after the declaration he had made, and
of incurring a censure, which her aunt might
so reasonably bestow, if it was known that she
was met by her lover at this hour, made her
instantly leave her beloved plane-tree, and
walk towards the chateau. She cast an
anxious eye around, and often stopped for a
moment to examine the shadowy scene be-
fore she ventured to proceed ; but she pass-
ed on, without perceiving any person, till,
having reached a clump of almond-trees not
far from the house, she rested, to take a re-
trospect of the garden, and to sigh forth
another adieu : — as her eyes wandered over
the landscape, she thought she perceived a
person emerge from the groves, and pass
slowly along a moon4ight alley that led be-
tween them ; bnt the distance and the imu
perfect light, would not suffer her to judge
with any degree of certainty, whether this
was fancy or reality. She continued to gaze
for some time on the spot ; till, on the dead
stillness of the air, she heard a sudden sound,
and in the next instant fancied she distin-
guished footsteps near her. Wasting not
another moment in conjecture, she hurried
to the chateau, and having reached it, retir-
ed to her chamber, where, as she closed her
window, she looked upon the garden, and
then again thought she distinguished a fi-
gure, gliding between the almond-trees she
had just left. She immediately withdrew
from the casement, and, though much agi-
tated, sought in sleep the refreshment of a
short oblivion.*

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPtfO

t>1

CHAP. XII.

-I leave that flowery path for aye

Of childhood, where I sported many a day,
Warbling- and sauntering- carelessly along;
Where every face was innocent and gay ;
Each vale romantic ; tuneful every tongue —
Sweet w'V and artless, all."

THE MINSTREL.

At an early hour, the carriage which was to
take Emily and Madame Cheron to Thou-
louse, appeared at the door of the chateau ;
and Madame was already in the breakfast-
room when her niece entered it. The repast
was silent and melancholy on the part of
Emily ; and Madame Cheron, whose vanity
was piqued on observing her dejection, re-
proved her in a manner that did not contri-
bute to remove it. It was with much reluc-
tance that Emily's request to take with her
the dog, which had been a favourite of her
father, was granted. Her aunt, impatient
to be gone, ordered the carriage to draw up ;
and, while she passed to the hall door, Emily
gave another look into the library, and an-
other farewell glance over the garden, and
then followed. Old Theresa stood at the
door to take leave of her young lady. " God
for ever keep you, ma'amselle !" said she ;
while Emily gave her hand in silence, and
could answer only with a pressure of her
band and a forced smile.

At the gate which led out of the grounds,
several of her father's pensioners were assem-
bled to bid her farewell ; to whom she would
have spoken, if her aunt would have suffered
the driver to stop, and, having distributed to
them almost all the money she had about
her, she sunk back in the carriage, yielding
to the melancholy of her heart. Soon after,
she caught, between the steep banks of the
road, another view of the chateau, peeping
from among the high trees, and surrounded
by green slopes and tufted groves ; the Ga-
ronne winding its way beneath their shades,
sometimes lost among the vineyards, and
then rising in greater majesty in the distant
pastures. The towering precipices of the
Pyrenees, that rose to the south, gave Emily
a thousand interesting recollections of her
late journey, and these objects of her former
enthusiastic admiration now excited only
sorrow and regret. Having gazed on the
chateau and its lovely scenery, till the banks
again closed upon them, her mind became
too much occupied by mournful reflections
to permit her to attend to the conversation
which Madame Cheron had begun on some
trivial topic ; so that they soon travelled in
profound silence.

Valancourt, meanwhile, was returned to
Estuviere, his heart occupied with the image
of Emily; sometimes indulging in reveries of
future happiness, but more frequently
shrinking with dread of the opposition he
might encounter from her family. He was

the younger son of an ancient family o*
Gascony; and, having lost his parents at an
early period of his life, the care of his
education and of his small portion had de-
volved to his brother, the Count deDuvarney,
his senior by nearly twenty years. Valan-
court had been educated in all the accom-
plishments of his age, and had art ardour of
spirit, and a certain grandeur of mind, that
gave him particular excellence in the exer-
cises then thought heroic. His little fortune
had been diminished by the necessary ex-
penses of his education ; but, M. La Valan-
court the elder seemed to think that his
genius and accomplishments would amply
supply the deficiency of his inheritance.
They offered flattering hopes of promotion
in the military profession — in those times
almost the only one in which a gentleman
could engage without incurring a stain on
his name ; and La Valancourt was of course
enrolled in the army. The general genius
of his mind was but little understood by his
brother. That ardour for whatever is great
and good in the moral world, as well as in
the natural one, displayed itself in his infant
years : and the strong indignation which he
felt and expressed at a criminal or a mean
action, sometimes drew upon him the dis-
pleasure of his tutor; who reprobated it
under the general term of violence of tern
per ; and who, when haranguing on the vir-
tues of mildness ai?d moderation, seemed to
forget the gentleness and compassion which
always appeared in his pupil towards objects
of misfortune.

He had now obtained leave of absence
from his regiment, when he made the excur-
sion into the Pyrenees which was the means
of introducing him to St. Aubert ; and as
this permission was nearly expired, he was
the more anxious to declare himself to
Emily's family, from whom he reasonably
apprehended opposition, since his fortune,
though with a moderate addition from her's
it would be sufficient to support them,would
not satisfy the views either of vanity or am-
bition. Valancourt was not without the
latter ; but he saw golden visions of pro-
motion in the army, and believed, that, with
Emily, he could in the mean time be de-
lighted to live within the limits of his humble
income. His thoughts were now occupied
in considering the means of making himself
known to her family ; to whom, however, he
had yet no address ; for he was entirely ig-
norant of Emily's precipitate departure from
La Vallee, of whom he hoped to obtain it.

Meanwhile, the travellers pursued their
journey; Emily making frequent efforts to
appear cheerful, and too often relapsing into
silence and dejection. Madame Cheron, at
tributing her melancholy solely to the cir
cumstance of her being removed to a distance
from her lover, and believing that the sorrow

fr«

the mysteries of udou>ho.

which her niece still expressed for the loss
of St Aubert, proceeded partly from an
affectation of sensibility, endeavoured to
make it appear ridiculous to her, that such
deep regret should continue to be felt s>
long after the period usually allowed for
grief.

At length, these unpleasant lectures were
interrupted by the arrival of the travellers at
Thoulouse ; and Emil y,who had not been there
for many years, and had only a very faint recol-
lection of it, was surprised at the ostentatious
style exhibited in her aunt's house and furni-
ture ; the more so, perhaps, because it was so
totally different from the modest elegance
lo which she had been accustomed. She
followed Madame Cheron through a large
hall, where several servants in rich liveries
appeared to a kind of saloon, fitted up with
more show than taste ; and her aunt, com-
plaining of fatigue, ordered supper imme-
diately. WI am glad to find myself in my
own house again," said she, throwing herself
on a large settee, w and to have my own
people about me. I detest travelling : though,
indeed I ought to like it, for what I see abroad
always makes me delighted to return to my
own chateau. What "makes you so silent,
child ? — what is it that disturbs you now ?'*

Emily suppressed a starting tear, and tried
to smile away the expression of an oppressed
heart: she was thinking of her home, and
felt too sensibly the arrogance and osten-
tatious vanity of Madame Cheron'-s conver-
sation. " Can this be my father's sister !"
said she to herself ; and then, the conviction
that she was so warming her heart with
something like kindness towards her, she felt
anxious to soften the harsh impression her
mind had received of her aunt's character,
and to show a willingness to oblige her.
The effort did not entirely fail ; she listened
with apparent cheerfulness, while Madame
Cheron expatiated on the splendour of her
house, told of the numerous parties she enter-
tained, and what she should expect of Emily ;
whose diffidence assumed the air of a reserve,
which her aunt, believing it to be that of
pride and ignorance united, now took occa-
sion to reprehend. She knew nothing of the
conduct of a mind that fears to trust its own
powers ; which, possessing a nice judgment,
and inclining to believe that every other
person perceives still more critically, fears
to commit itself to censure, and seeks shelter
in the obscurity of silence.. Emily had fre-
quently blushed at the fearless manners
which she had seen admired, and the brilliant
nothings which she had heard applauded ; yet
this applause, so far from encouraging her to
imitate the conduct that had won it, rather
made her shrink into the reserve that would
protect her from such absurdity.

Madame Cheron looked on ber niece's
diffidence with a feeliig very near to con-

tempt, and endeavoured to overcome it by
reproof, rather than to encourage it by
gentleness.

The entrance of supper somewhat inter-
rvpted the complacent discourse of Madan e
Cheron, and the painful considerations which
it had forced upon Emily. When the repast
(which was rendered ostentatious by the
attendance of a great number of servants,
and by a profusion of plate) was over,
Madame Cheron retired to her chamber, and
a female servant came to show Emily to
her's. Having passed up a large staircase,
and through several galleries, they came to
a flight of back stairs, which led into a short
passage in a remote part of the chateau ;
and there the servant opened the door of a
small chamber, which she said was Ma'am-
selle Emily's ; who, once more alone, indulged
the tears she had long tried to restrain.

Those who know, from experience, how
much the heart becomes attached even to
inanimate objects to which it has been long
accustomed — how unwillingly it resigrs
them — how, with the sensations of an old
friend, it meets them after temporary
absence $ will understand the forlornness of
Emily's feelings, shut out from the only home
she had known from her infancy, and thrown
upon a scene, and among persons,disagreeab!e
for more qualities than their novelty. Her
father's favourite dog now in the chamber,
thus seemed to acquire the character and
importance of a friend •, and as the animal
fawned over her when she wept, and licked
her hands, " Ah, poor Manchon! " said she,
" I have nobody now to love me — but you !"
and she wept the more. After some time, her
thoughts returning to her father's inj unctions,
she remembered how often he had blamed her
for indulging useless soitow — how often he
had pointed out to her the necessity of for-
titude and patience, assuring her, that the
faculties of the mind strengthen by exertion,
till they finally unnerve affliction, and
triumph over it. These recollections dried
her tears, gradually soothed her spirits, and
inspired her with the sweet emulation of
practising precepts which her father had so
frequently inculcated.

CHAP. XIII.

" Some pow'r impart the spear and shield
At winch the wizard passions fly,
By which the giant follies die." COLLI NS.

Madame Cheron's house stood at a little
distance from the city of Thoulouse, and
was surrounded by extensive gardens, in
which Emily, who had arisen early, amused
herself with wandering before breakfast.
From a terrace, that extended along the
highest part of them, was a wide view over
Languedoc. On the distant horizon to the
south, she discovered the wild summits of
the Pyrenees, and her fancy immediately

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

*f>0

painted the green pastures of Gascony at
their feet. Her heart pointed to her peace-
ful home — to the neighbourhood where
alan court was — where St. Aubert had
been; and her imagination, piercing the
veil of distance, brought that home to her
eyes in all its interesting and romantic
beauty. She experienced an inexpressible
pleasure m believing that she beheld the
country around it, though no feature could
be distinguished, except the retiring chain
of the Pyrenees •, and, inattentive to the
scene immediately before her, and to the
flight of time, she continued to lean on the
window of a pavilion that terminated the
terrace, with her eyes fixed on Gascony,
and her mind occupied with the interesting
ideas which the view of it awakened, till a
servant came to tell her breakfast was
ready. Her thoughts thus recalled to the
surrounding objects, the strait walks, square
parterres, and artificial fountains of the
garden, could not fail, as she passed through
it, to appear the worse, opposed to the neg-
ligent graces and natural beauties of the
grounds of La Vallee, upon which her
recollection had been so intensively em-
ployed.

w Whither have you been rambling so
early ?" said Madame Cheron, as her niece
entered the breakfast-room : " I don't ap-
prove of these solitary walks." And Emily
was surprised, when, having informed her
aunt that she had been no further than the
gardens, she understood these to be included
in the reproof. u I desire you will not walk
there again, at so early an hour, unat-
tended," said Madame Cheron : " my gar-
dens are very extensive; and a young
woman who can make assignations by
moon-light at La Vallee, is not to be
trusted to her own inclinations elsewhere."

Emily, extremely surprised and shocked,
had scarcely power to beg an explanation
of these words, and, when she did, her aunt
absolutely refused to give it; though, by
her severe looks and half sentences, she
appeared anxious to impress Emily with a
belief that she was well informed of some
degrading circumstances of her conduct.
Conscious innocence could not prevent a
blush from stealing over Emily's cheek :
she trembled and looked confusedly, under
the bold eye of Madame Cheron, who
blushed also ; but hers was the blush of
triumph, such as sometimes stains the
countenance of a person congratulating
himself on the penetration which had taught
him to suspect another, and who loses both
pity for the supposed criminal, and indig-
nation of his guilt, in the gratification of
his own vanity.

Emily, not doubting that her aunt's
mistake arose from the having observed her
ramble in the garden on the night preceding

her departure from La Vallee, now men
tioned the motive of it ; at which Madany
Cheron smiled contemptuously, refusmv
either to accept this explanation, or to give
her reasons fpr refusing it ; and soon after,
she concluded the subject by saying — " 1
never trust people's assertions : I always
judge of them by their actions. But I am
willing to try what will be your behavioui
in future."

Emily, less surprised by her aunt's mode-
ration and mysterious silence, than by the
accusation she had received, deeply consi-
dered the latter, and scarcely doubted that
it was Valancourt whom she had seen
at night in the gardens of La Vallee, and
that he had been observed there by Madame
Cheron ; who now, passing from one pain-
ful topic only to revive another almost
equally so, spoke of the situation of her
niece's property in the hands of M. Motte-
ville. While she thus talked with ostenta-
tious pity of Emily's misfortunes, she failed
not to inculcate the duties of humility and
gratitude, or to render Emily fully sensible
of every cruel mortification ; who soon per-
ceived, that she was to be considered as a
dependant, not only by her aunt, but by
her aunt's servants.

She was now informed that a large party
were expected to dinner ; on which account
Madame Cheron repeated the lesson of the
preceding night, concerning her conduct in
company ; and Emily wished that she might
have courage enough to practise it. Her
aunt then proceeded to examine the simpli-
city of her dress, adding, that she expected
to see her attired with gaiety and taste.
After which she condescended to show
Emily the splendour of her chateau, and to
point out the particular beauty or elegance
which she thought distinguished each of hei
numerous suites of apartments. She then
withdrew to her toilet, the throne of her
homage, alid Emily to her chamber, to un-
pack her books, and to try to charm her
mind by reading till the hour of dressing.

When the company arrived, Emily en-
tered the saloon with an air of timidity
which all her efforts could not overcome,
and which was increased by the conscious-
ness of Madame Cheron's severe observa
tion. Her mourning dress, the mild dejec
tion of her beautiful countenance, and the
retiring diffidence of her manner, rendered
her a very interesting object to many of the
company ; among whom she distinguished
Signor Montoni and his friend Cavigni, the
late visitors at M. Quesnel's ; who now
seemed to converse with Madame Cheron
with the familiarity of old acquaintance,
and she to attend to them with particular
pleasure.

This Signor Montoni had an lir of con-
scious superiority, animated by spirit anl

ito

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

strengthened by talents, to which every
person seemed involuntarily to yield. The
quickness of his perceptions was strikingly
expressed on his countenance ; yet that
countenance could submit implicitly to
occasion; and more than once in this day
the triumph of art over nature might have
been discerned in it. His visage was long,
and rather narrow, yet he was called hand-
some •, and it was, perhaps, the spirit and
vigour of his soul, sparkling through his
features, that triumphed for him. Emily
felt admiration, but not the admiration that
leads to esteem j for it was mixed with a
degree of fear she knew not exactly where-
fore.

Cavigni was gay and insinuating as for-
merly ; and though he paid almost incessant
attention to Madame Cheron, he found
some opportunities of conversing with Emily ;
to whom he directed, at first, the sallies of
his wit, but now and then assumed an air of
tenderness which she observed, and shrunk
from. Though she replied but little, fhe
gentleness and sweetness of her manners en-
couraged him to talk ; and she felt relieved
when a young lady of the party, who spoke
incessantly, obtruded herself on his notice.
This lady, who possessed all the sprightliness
of a French woman, with all her coquetry,
affected to understand every subject — or,
rather, there was no affectation in the case ;
for, never looking beyond the limits of her
own ignorance, she believed she had nothing
to learn. She attracted notice from all —
amused some, disgusted others, for a mo-
ment, and was then forgotten.

This day passed without any material
occurrence ; and Emily, though amused by
the characters she had seen, was glad when
she could retire to the recollections which
had acquired with her the character of duties.

A fortnight passed in a round of dissi-
pation and company ; and Emily, who at-
tended Madame Cheron in all her visits, was
sometimes entertained, but oftener wearied.
She was struck by the apparent talents and
knowledge displayed in the various conver-
sations she listened to ; and it was long
before she discovered that the talents were,
for the most part, those of imposture, and
the knowledge nothing more than was ne-
cessary to assist them. But what deceived
her most, was the air of constant gaiety and
good spirits displayed by every visitor, and
which she supposed to arise from content
as constant, and from benevolence as ready.
At length, from the over-acting of some
less accomplished than others, she could
perceive, that, though contentment and
benevolence are the only sure sources of
cheerfulness, the immoderate and feverish
animation, usually exhibited in large par-
ties, results partly from an insensibility to
the cares which benevolence must sometimes

derive from the sufferings of others, and
partly from a desire to display the appear-
ance of that prosperity which they know
will command submission and attention to
themselves.

Emily's pleasantest hours were passed in
the pavilion of the terrace j to which she
retired, when she could steal from obser-
vation, with a book to overcome, or a lute
to indulge, her melancholy. There, as
she sat with her eyes fixed on the far
distant Pyrenees, and her thoughts on Valan-
court, and the beloved scenes of Gascony,
she would play the sweet and melancholy
songs of her native province— the populai
songs she had listened to from her childhood

One evening, having excused herself from
accompanying her aunt abroad, she thus
withdrew to the pavilion, with books and
her lute. It was the mild and beautiful
evening of a sultry day ; and the windows,
which fronted the west, opened upon all
the glory of a setting sun. Its rays illu-
minated, with strong splendour, the cliffs of
the Pyrenees, and touched their snowy tops
with a roseate hue, that remained long after
the sun had sunk below the horizon, and
the shades of twilight had stolen over the
landscape. Emily touched her lute with
that fine melancholy expression which came
from her heart. The pensive hour, and the
scene ; the evening light on the Garonne,
that flowed at no great distance, and whose
waves, as they passed towards La Vallee,
she often viewed with a sigh — these united
circumstances disposed her mind to ten-
derness ; and her thoughts were with Valan-
court, of whom she had heard nothing since
her arrival at Thoulouse ; and now that she
was removed from him, and in uncertainty,
she perceived all the interest he held in her
heart. Before she saw Valancourt, she had
never met a mind and taste so accordant
with her own ; and, though Madame Cheron
told her much of the arts of dissimulation,
and that the elegance and propriety of
thought, which she so much admired in her
lover, were assumed for the purpose of
pleasing her, she conld scarcely doubt their
truth. This possibility, however, faint as
it was, was sufficient to harass her mind
with anxiety ; and she found, that few con-
ditions are more painful than that of uncer-
tainty as to the merit of a beloved object
— Hin uncertainty which she would not have
suffered, had her confidence in her own
opinions been greater.

She was awakened from her musing by
the sound of horses' feet along a road that
wound under the windows of the pavillion ;
and a geutleman passed 011 horseback, whose,
resemblance to Val&hcouit, in air and figure
(for the twilight did not permit a view o*
his features), immediately struck her. She
retired hastily from the lattice, fearing to

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

61

be seen, yet wishing' to observe further;
while the stranger passed on without look-
ing up, and, when she returned to the
lattice, she saw him, faintly through the
twilight, winding under the high trees that
led to Thoulouse. This little incident so
much disturbed her spirits, that the temple
and its scenery were no longer interesting
to her, and, after walking a while on the
terrace, she returned to the chateau.

Madame Cheron, whether she had seen a
rival admired, had lost at play, or had wit-
nessed an entertainment more splendid than
her own, was returned from her visit with
a temper more than usually discomposed ;
and Emily was glad when the hour arrived
in which she could retire to the solitude
of her own apartment.

On the following morning she was sum-
moned to Madame Cheron, whose counte-
nance was inflamed with resentment ; and,
as Emily advanced, she held out a letter
to her.

" Do you know this hand ?" said she, in
a severe tone, and with a look that was
intended to search her heart ; while Emily
examined the letter attentively, and assured
her that she did not.

" Do not provoke me," said her aunt .
" you do know it : confess the truth imme-
diately. I insist upon your confessing the
truth instantly."

Emily was silent, and turned to leave the
room ; but Madame called her back. " Oh !
you are guilty, then !" said she : " you do
know the hand l" " If you were before in
doubt of this, Madam," replied Emily,
calmly, " why did you accuse me of having
told a falsehood ?" Madame Cheron did
not blush; but her niece did, a moment
after, when she heard the name of Valan-
court. It was not, however, with the con-
sciousness of deserving reproof ; for if she
had ever seen his hand- writing, the present
characters did not bring it to her recol-
lection.

" It is useless to deny it," said Madame
Cheron ; " I see in your countenance that
you are no stranger to this letter ; and, I
dare say, you have received many such from
this impertinent young man, without my
knowledge, in my own house."

Emily, shocked at the indelicacy of this
accusation still more than by the vulgarity
of the former, instantly forgot the pride
that had imposed silence, and endeavoured
lo vindicate herself from the aspersion ; but
Madame Cheron was not to be convinced.

" I cannot suppose," she resumed, " that
this young man would have taken the liberty
of writing to me, if you had not encouraged
him to do so ; and I must now" — " You
will allow me to remind you, Madam,"
said Emily, timidly, " of some particulars
of a conversation we had at La Vallee. 1

then told you truly, that I had only not
forbade Monsieur Valancourt from addressing
my family.

u I will not be interrupted," said Madame
Cheron, interrupting her niece: "I was
going to say — I — I — I have forgot what 1
was going to say. — But how happened it
that you did not forbid him ?" Emily was
silent. " How happened it that you encou-
raged him to trouble me with this letter ?
—A young man that nobody knows — an
utter stranger in the place — a young ad-
venturer, no doubt, who is looking out for
a good fortune. However, on that point, he
has mistaken his aim."

His family was known to my father," said
Emily, modestly, and without appearing to
be sensible of the last sentence.

" O ! that is no recommendation at all,"
replied her aunt, with her usual readiness
upon this topic ; "he took such strange
fancies to people. He was always j udging
persons by their countenances, and was con-
tinually deceived." — " Yet it was but now,
Madam, that you judged me guilty by my
countenance," said Emily, with a design of
reproving Madame Cheron, to which she
was induced by this disrespectful mention
of her father.

" I called you here," resumed her aunt,
colouring," to tell you, that I will not be
disturbed, in my own house, by any letters
or visits from young men who may take a
fancy to flatter you. This M. de Valentine
— I think you call him — has the impertinence
to beg I will permit him to pay his respects
to me ! I shall send him a proper answer.
And for you, Emily, I repeat it once for all
— if you are not contented to conform to
my directions, and to my way of life, I shall
give up the task of overlooking your con-
duct— I shall no longer trouble myself with
your education, but shall send you to board
in a convent."

" Dear Madam," said Emily, bursting
into tears, and overcome by the rude sus-
picions her aunt had expressed, " how have
I deserved these reproofs ?" She could say
no more ; and so very fearful was she of
acting with any degree of impropriety in
the affair itself,* that, at the present mo-
ment, Madame Cheron might perhaps have
prevailed with her to bind herself by a pro-
mise to renounce Valancourt for ever. Her
mind, weakened by her terrors, would no
longer suffer her to view him as she had
formerly done : she feared the error of her
own judgment, not that of Madame Cheron ;
and feared also, that, in her former con-
versation with him at La Vallee, she had
not conducted herself with sufficient reserve.
She knew that she did not deserve the coarse
suspicions which her aunt had thrown out ^
but a thousand scruples rose to torment
her such as would never have disturbed the

G2

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

peace of Madame Cheron. Thus rendered
anxious lo avoid every opportunity of
erring", and willing to submit to any re-
strictions that her aunt should think proper,
she expressed an obedknce ; to which
Madame Cheron did not give much con-
fidence, and which she seemed to consider
as the consequence of either fear or artifice.

" Well, then," said she, " promise me
that you will neither see this young man,
nor write to him, without my consent." —
" Deal* Madam," replied Emily, " can you
suppose I would do either, unknown to
you ?" — " I don't know what to suppose.
There is no knowing how young women
will act. It is difficult to place any confi-
dence in them, for they have seldom sense
enough to wish for the respect of the world,"

" Alas ! Madam," said Emily, ** I am
anxious for my own respect; my father
taught me the value of that : he said, if I
deserved my own esteem, that of the world
would follow of course."
* u My brother was a good kind of a man,"
replied Madame Cheron, " bat he did not
know he world. I am sure I have always

felt a proper respect for myself; yet "

She stopped ; but she might have added,
that the world had not always shown re-
spect to her ; and this, without impeaching
its judgment.

" Well!" resumed Madame Cheron, " you
have not given me the promise, though,
that I demand." Emily readily gave it ;
and, being then suffered to withdraw, she
walked into the garden ; tried to compose
her spirits ; and at length, arrived at her
favourite pavilion at the end of the terrace,
where, seating herself at one of the embow-
ered windows that opened upon a balcony,
the stillness and seclusion of the scene
allowed her to re-collect her thoughts, and
to arrange them so as to form a clearer
judgment of her former conduct. She en-
deavoured to review with exactness all the
particulars of her conversation with Valan-
court at La Vallee ; had the satisfaction to
observe nothing that could alarm her deli-
cate pride, and thus to be confirmed in the
self-esteem which was so necessary to her
oeace Her mind then became tranquil ;
and she saw Valancourt amiable and intel-
ligent as he had formerly appealed, and
Madame Cheron neither the one nor the
other. The remembrance of her lover, how-
ever, brought with it many very painful
emotions, for it by no means reconciled her
to the thought of resigning him; and
Madame Cheron having already shewn how
highly she disapproved of the attachment,
she foresaw much suffering from the oppo-
sition of interests : yet with all this was
mingled a degree of delight, which, in spite
of reason, partook of hope. She deter-
mined, however, that no consideration

should induce her to permit a clandestine
correspondence, and to observe in her con-
versation with Valancourt, should they ever
meet again, the same nicety of reserve
which had hitherto marked her conduct. Ai
she repeated the words, " should we ever
meet again!" she shrunk, as if this was a
circumstance which had never before occur-
red to her, and tears came to her eyes
which she hastily dried, for she heard foot-
steps approaching, and then the door c*
the pavilion open, and, on turning, she
saw — Valancourt. An emotion of mingled
pleasure, surprise, and apprehension, press-
ed so suddenly upon her heart as almost to
overcome her spirits : the colour left her
cheeks ; then returned brighter than before;
and she was for a moment unable to spea^-
or to rise from her chair. His countenance
was the mirror in which she saw her own
emotions reflected, and it roused her to
self-command. The joy which had animated
his features when he entered the pavilion,
was suddenly repressed, as, approaching,
he perceived her agitation, and in a tremu-
lous voice inquired after her health. Reco-
vered from her first surprise, she answered
him with a tempered smile ; but a variety
of opposite emotions still assailed her heart,
and struggled to subdue the mild dignity of
her manner. It was difficult to tell which
predominated — the joy of seeing Valan-
court, or the terror of her aunt's displea-
sure when she should hear of this meeting.
After some short and embarrassed conver-
sation, she led him into the gardens, and
inquired if he had seen Madame Cheron.
" No," said he, " I have not yet seen her,
for they told me she was engaged ; and, as
soon as I learned that you were in the gar-
dens, I came hither." He paused a mo-
ment in great agitation, and then added,—
" May I venture to tell you the purport of
my visit, without incurring your displea
sure, and to hope that you will not accuse
me of precipitation in now availing myself
of the permission you once gave me of
addressing your family ?" Emily, who knew
not what to reply, was spared from further
perplexity, and was sensible only of fear,
when, on raising her eyes, she saw Madame
Cheron turn into the avenue. As the con-
sciousness of innocence returned, this fear
was so far dissipated as to permit her to
appear tranquil ; and, instead of avoiding
her aunt, she advanced with Valancourt to
meet her. The look of haughty and impa-
tient displeasure with which Madame Che-
ron regarded them, made Emily shrink;
who understood, from a single glance, that
this meeting was believed to have been
more than accidental: having mentioned
Valancourt's name, she became again too
much agitated to remain with them, and
rsturntd into the chateau ; where she

awaifed long, in a state of trembling aiiM
ct; , the conclusion of the conference. She
knew not how to account tor Valan-
court's visit to her aunt before he had
received the permission he solicited, since
she was ignorant of a circumstance which
would have rendered the request useless,
even if Madame Cheron had been inclined
to grant it. Valancourt, in the agitation of
his spirits, had forgotten to date his letter •,
so that it was impossible for Madame Che-
ron to return an answer ; and, when he
recollected this circumstance, he was. per-
haps, not so sorry for the omission, as glad
of the excuse it allowed him for waiting on
her before she could send a refusal.

Madame Cheron had a long conversation
with Valancourt ; and, when she returned
to the chateau, her countenance expressed
ill-humour, but not the degree of severity
which Emily had apprehended. " I have
dismissed this young man at last,*' said she;
w and I hope my house will never again be
disturbed with similar visits. He assures
me, that your interview was not precon-
certed." " Dear Madam !" said Emily, in
extreme emotion, " you surely did not ask
him the question ?" " Most certainly I
did : you could not suppose I should be so
imprudent as to neglect it." " Good God I"
exclaimed Emily, " what an opinion must
he form of me, since you, madam, could
express a suspicion of such ill conduct !"
" It is ; of very Mttle consequence what
opinion he may form of you," replied her
aunt, " for I have put an end to the affair;
but I believe he will not form a worse opi-

nion o^ me for my prudent conduct. I U?t
him see that I was not to be trifled with,
and that 1 had more delicacy than to permit
any clandestine correspondence to be carried
on in my house." *

Emily had frequently heard Madame
Cheron use the word delicacy, but she was
now more than usually perplexed to under-
stand how she meant to apply it in this
instance, in which her whole conduct ap-
peared to merit the very reverse of the
term.

" It was very inconsiderate of my bro-
ther," resumed Madame Cheron, " to leave
the trouble of overlooking your conduct to
me. I wish you were well settled in life.
But if I find that I am to be further troubled
wHh such visitors as this M. Valancourt,
shall place you in a convent at once : so
remember the alternative. This young man
has the impertinence to own to me — he
owns it ! — that his fortune is very small,
and that he is chiefly dependent on an elder
brother and on the profession he has chosen.
He should have concealed these circum-
stances, at least, if he expected to succeed
with me. Had he the presumption to sup-
pose I would marry my niece to a person
such as he describes himself!"

Emily dried her tears when she heard of
the candid confession of Valancourt ; and
though the circumstances it discovered were
afflicting to her hopes, his artless conduct
gave her a degree of pleasure that overcame
every other emotion. But she was compelled
even thus early in life, to observe that good
sense and noble integrity are not always sut-

m

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

ficient to cope with folly and narrow cunning ;
and her heart was pure enough to allow her,
even at this trying moment, to look with
more pride on the defeat of the former, than
with mortification on the conquests of the
latter.

Madame Cheron pursued her triumph.
— u He has also thought proper to tell me,
that he will receive his dismission from no
person but yourself. This favour, however,
I have absolutely refused him : he shall learn,
that it is quite sufficient that I disapprove
him. And I take this opportunity of re-
peating,— that, if you concert any means of
interview unknown to me, you shall leave
my house immediately."

« How little do you know me, Madame,
that you should think such an injunction ne-
cessary;" said Emily, trying to suppress
her emotion ; " how little of the dear parents
who educated me."

Madame Cheron now went to dress for an
engagement which she had made for the even-
ing ; and Emily, who would gladly have been
excused from attending her aunt, did not ask
to remain at home, lest her request should
be attributed to an improper motive. When
she retired to her own room, the little forti-
tude which had supported her in the presence
of her relation, forsook her: she remembered
only that Valancourt, whose character ap-
peared more amiable from every circum-
stance that unfolded it, was banished from
her presence — perhaps for ever ! — and she
passed the time in weeping, which, accord-
ing to her aunt's direction, she • ought to
have employed in dressing. This important
duty was, however, quickly dispatched;
though, when she joined Madame Cheron at
table, her eyes betrayed that she had been in
tears, and drew upon her a severe reproof.

Her efforts to appear cheerful did not en-
tirely fail, when she joined the company at
the house of Madame Clairval, an elderly
widow lady, who had lately come to reside
at Thoulouse, on an estate of her late hus-
band. She had lived many years at Paris
in a splendid style ; had naturally a gay
temper ; and, since her residence at Thou-
louse, had given some of the most magni-
ficent entertainments that had been seen in
that neighbourhood.

These excited not only the envy, but the
trifling ambition of Madame Cheron 5 who,
since she could not rival the splendour of
her festivities, was desirous of being ranked
in the number of her most intimate friends.
For this purpose she paid her the most obse-
quious attention, and made a point of being
disengaged whenever she received an invi-
tation from Madame Clairval ; of whom she
talked wherever she went, and derived much
self-consequence from impressing a belief
on her general acquaintance, that they were
ou the most familiar footing.

The entertainments of this evening con.
sisted of a ball and supper : it was a fancy
ball ; and the company danced in groups in
the gardens, which were very extensive. The
high and luxuriant trees under which the
groups assembled, were illuminated with a
profusion of lamps, disposed with taste and
fancy. The gay and various dresses Of the
company (some of whom were seated on the
turf, conversing at their ease, observing the
cotillons, taking refreshments, and sometimes
touching sportively a guitar); the gallan,
manner of the gentlemen; the exquisitely
capricious air of the ladies ; the light fantastic
steps of their dances ; the musicians, with the
lute, the hautboy, and the tabor, seated at
the foot of an elm; and the sylvan scenery of
woods around; were circumstances that
unitedly formed a characteristic and striking
picture of French festivity. Emily surveyed
the gaiety of the scene with a melancholy
kind of pleasure; and her emotion may be
imagined, when, as she stood with her aunt
looking at one of the groups, she perceived
Valancourt — saw him dancing with a young
and beautiful lady — saw him conversing with
her with a mixture of attention and fami-
liarity such as she had seldom observed in
his manner. She turned hastily from the
scene, and attempted to draw away Madame
Cheron, who was conversing with Signor
Cavigni, and neither perceived Valancourt
nor was willing to be interrupted. A
faintness suddenly came over Emily, and,
unable to support herself, she sat down on
a turf bank beneath the trees, where several
other persons were seated. One of these
observing the extreme paleness of her counte-
nance, inquired if she was ill, and begged
she would allow him to fetch her a glass of
"water ; for which politeness she thanked him
but did not accept it. Her apprehension
lest Valancourt should observe her emotion,
made her anxious to overcome it ; and she
succeeded so far as to re-compose her
countenance. Madame Cheron was still
conversing with Cavigni; and the Count
Bauvillers, who had addressed Emily, made
some observations upon the scene, to which
she answered almost unconsciously ; for her
mind was still occupied with the idea of
Vaiancourt, to whom it was with extreme
uneasiness that she remained so near. Some
remarks, however, which the Count made'
upon the dance, obliged her to turn her eyes
towards it ; and, at that moment, Valancourt's
met her's. Her colour faded again : she
felt that she was relapsing into faintness and
instantly averted her looks, but not before she
had observed the altered countenance of
Valancourt on perceiving her. She would
have left the spot immediately, had she not
been conscious that this conduct would
have shown him more obviously the interest
he held in her heart ; and, having tried to

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

e%

attend to the count's conversation, and to
loin in it, she at length recovered her spirits.
But, when he made some observation on
Valancourt's partner, the fear of showing
that she was interested in the remark would
have betrayed it to him, had not the count,
while he spoke, looked towards the person
of whom he was speaking. "The lady,"
said he, u dancing with that young cheva-
lier, who appears to be accomplished in
every thing but in dancing, is ranked among
the beauties of Thoulouse. She is hand-
some, and her fortune will be very large. I
hope she will make a better choice in a part-
ner for life than she has done in a partner
for the dance ; for I observe he has just put
the set into great confusion — he does no-
thing but commit blunders. I am surprised
that, with his air and figure, he has not taken
more care to accomplish himself in dan-
cing."

Emily, whose heart trembled at every
word that was now uttered, endeavoured to
turn the conversation from Valancourt, by
inquiring the name of the lady with whom
he danced ; but, before the count could re-
ply, the dance concluded ; and Emily, per-
ceiving that Valancourt was coming towards
her, rose, and joined Madame Cheron.

" Here is the Chevalier Valancourt, ma-
dam," said she, in a whisper : " pray let us
go." Her aunt immediately moved on, but
not before Valancourt had reached them ;
who bowed lowly to Madame Cheron, and
with an earnest and dejected look to Emily;
with whom, notwithstanding all her effort,
an air of more than common reserve pre-
vailed. The presence of Madame Cheron
prevented Valancourt from remaining, and
he passed on, with a countenance whose me-
lancholy reproached her for having increased
it. Emily was called from the musing fit
into which she had fallen, by the Count
Bauvillers, who was known to her aunt.

" I have your pardon to beg, ma'am-
selle," said he, " for a rudeness, which you
will readily believe was quite unintentional.

I did not know that the chevalier was your
acquaintance when I so freely criticised his
dancing." Emily blushed, and smiled ; and
Madame Cheron spared her the difficulty of
replying. " If you mean the person who
has just passed us," said she, " I can assure
you he is no acquaintance of either mine or
Ma'amselle St. Aubert's : I know nothing of
him."

" O ! that is the Chevalier Valancourt,"
said Cavigni carelessly, and looking back.

II You know him, then ?" said Madame Che-
ron. " I am not acquainted with him," re-
plied Cavigni. " You don't know, then, the
reason I have to call him impertinent : — he
has had the presumption to admire my
niece !"

" If every man deserves the title of im-

pertinent who admires Ma'amselle St. Au-
bert," replied Cavigni, " I fear there are a
great many impertinents, and I am wil-
ling to acknowledge myself one of the
number."

" Signor !" said Madame Cheron, with an
affected smile, " I perceive you have learnt
the art of complimenting since you came
into France. But it is cruel to compliment
children, since they mistake flattery for
truth."

Cavigni turned away his face for a mo-
ment, and then said, with a studied air,
■*■ Whom, then, are we to compliment, ma-
dam ? — for it would be absurd to compli-
ment a woman of refined understanding:
sfw is above all praise." As he finished the
sentence, he gave Emily a sly look, and the
smile, that had lurked in his eye, stole forth.
She perfectly understood it, and blushed for
Madame Cheron ; who replied, " You are
perfectly right, signor : no woman of under-
standing can endure compliment."

a I have heard Signor Montoni say," re-
joined Cavigni, " that he never knew but
one woman who deserved it."

* Well !" exclaimed Madame Cheron,
with a short laugh, and a smile of unutter-
able complacency; " and who could she
be ?"

" O!" replied Cavigni, " it is impossible
to mistake her ; for, certainly, there is not
more than one woman in the world who has
both the merit to deserve compliment and
the wit to refuse it : most women reverse
the case entirely." He looked again at
Emily, who blushed deeper than before for
her aunt, and turned from him with displea-
sure.

" Well, signor !" said Madame Cheron ;
u I protest you are a Frenchman : I never
heard a foreigner say any thing half so gal-
lant as that !"

" True, madam," said the count, who
had been some time silent, and with a low
bow ; " but the gallantry of the compliment
had been utterly lost, but for the ingenuity
that discovered the application."

Madame Cheron did not perceive the
meaning of this too satirical sentence, and
she therefore escaped the pain which Emily
felt on her account. " O ! here comes Sig
nor Montoni himself," said her aunt ; " I
protest I will tell him all the fine things you
have been saying to me." The signor, how-
ever,' passed at this moment into another
walk. a Pray, who is it that has so much
engaged your friend this evening ?" asked
Madame Cheron, with an air of chagrin :
" I have not seen him once."

u He had a very particular engagement
with the Marquis La Rivere," replied Cavi,
gni, * which has detained him, I perceive
till this moment, or he would have done
himself the honour of paying his respects to

f.6

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

you madam, sooner, as lie commissioned me
to say. But, I know not how it is-— your
conversation is so fascinating, that it can
charm even memory, 1 think ; or I should
certainly have delivered my friend's apology
before."

" The apology, sir, would have been more
satisfactory from himself," said Madame
Cheron ; whose vanity was more mortified
by Montoni's neglect, than flattered by Ca-
vigni's compliment. Her manner at this
moment, and Cavigni's late conversation,
now awakened a suspicion in Emily's mind,
which, notwithstanding that some recollec-
tions served to confirm it, appeared prepos-
terous. She thought she perceived that
Montoni was paying serious addresses to her
aunt, and that she not only accepted them,
but was jealously watchful of any appear-
ance of neglect on his part. — That Madame
Cheron, at her years, should elect a second
husband, was ridiculous, though her vanity
made it not impossible ; but that Montoni,
with his discernment, his figure, and pre-
tensions, should make a choice of Madame
Cheron, appeared most wonderful. Her
thoughts, however, did not dwell long on
this subject — nearer interest pressed upon
them : Valancourt rejected of her aunt, and
Valancourt dancing with a gay and beauti-
ful partner, alternately tormented her mind.
As she passed along the garden, she looked
timidly forward, half fearing and half ho-
ping that he might appear in the crowd ; and
the disappointment she felt in not seeing
him, told her that she had hoped more than
she had feared.

Montoni soon after joined the party. He
muttered over some short speech about re-
gret for having been so long detained else-
where, when he knew he should have the
pleasure of seeing Madame Cheron here;
and she, receiving the apology with the air
of a pettish girl, addressed herself entirely to
Cavigni, who looked archly at Montoni, as
if he would have said, " I will not triumph
over you too much — I will have the good-
ness to bear my honours meekly •, but look
sharp, signor, or I shall certainly run away
with your prize."

The supper was served in different pavi-
lions in the gardens, as well as in one large
saloon of the chateau, and with more of
taste than either of splendour or even of
plenty. Madame Cheron and her party
supped with Madame Clairval in the saloon,
and Emily with difficulty disguised her
emotion, when she saw Valancourt placed at
the same table with herself. There Madame
Cheron, having surveyed him with high dis-
pleasure, said to some person who sat next
to her, " Pray, who is that young man ?" —
a It is the Chevalier Valancourt," was the
•nswer.-— " Yes ; I am not ignorant of his
name ; but who is this Chevalier Valan^eurt

that thus intrudes himself at this ta
The attention of the person to whom she
spoke was called off before she received a
second reply. The table at which they sat
was very long ; and Valancourt being seat-
ed, with his partner, near the bottom, and
Emily near the top, the distance between
them may account for his not immediately
perceiving her. She avoided looking to that
end of the table ; but, whenever her eyes
happened to glance towards it, she observed
him conversing with his beautiful compa-
nion ; and the observation did not contri-
bute to restore her peace, any more than the
account she heard of the fortune and accom-
plishments of this same lady.

Madame Cheron, to whom these remarks
were sometimes addressed, because they
supported topics for trivial conversation,
seemed indefatigable in her attempts to de-
preciate Valancourt ; towards whom she felt
all the petty resentment of a narrow pride.
" I admire the lady," said she, " but I must
condemn her choice of a partner." — " Oh,
the Chevalier Valancourt is one of the most
accomplished young men we have," replied
the lady to whom this remark was addressed.
" It is whispered, that Mademoiselle d'Eme-
ry, and her very large fortune, are to be
his."

" Impossible !" exclaimed Madame Che-
ron, reddening with vexation ; " it is impos-
sible that she can be so destitute of taste-
he has so little the air of a person of condi-
tion, that, if I did not see him at the table
of Madame Clairval, I should never have
suspected him to be one. I have, besides,
particular reasons for believing the report
to be erroneous."

" I cannot doubt the truth of it," replied
the lady gravely, disgusted by the abrupt
contradiction she had received concerning
her opinion of Valancourt's merit." — " You
will, perhaps, doubt it," said Madame Che-
ron, " when I assure you, that it was only
this morning that I rejected his suit."

This was said without any intention of
imposing the meaning it conveyed, but sim-
ply from a habit of considering herself to be
the most important person in every affair
that concerned her niece, and because, lite-
rally, she had rejected Valancourt. —
" Your reasons are indeed such as cannot
be doubted," replied the lady, with an iro-
nical smile.-— " Any more than the discern-
ment of the Chevalier Valancourt," added
Cavigni, who stood by the chair of Madam*
Cheron, and had heard her arrogate to her-
self, as he thought, a distinction which h*
been paid to her niece.-—" His discernmei
may be justly questioned, signor," sai(
Madame Cheron ; who was not flattered bj
what she understood to be an encomium 01
Emily.

"Alas!" exclaimed Cavigni, surveying

THE MYSTERIES OF UBOLPHO.

67

Madame Cheron, with affected ecstacy,
•« how vain is that assertion, while that face
—that shape— that air-*— combine to refute
it ! — Unhappy Valancourt ! his discernment
has been his destruction."

Emily looked surprised and embarrassed j
the lady who had lately spoken, astonished ;
and Madame Cheron, who, though she did
not perfectly understand this speech, was
very ready to believe herself complimented
by it, said, smilingly, " O signor, you are
very gallant ; but those who hear you vin-
dicate the chevalier's discernment, will sup-
pose that I am the object of it."

" They cannot doubt it," replied Cavigni,
bowing low.

" And would not that be very mortifying,
signor ?"

Unquestionably it would," flaid Cavi-
gni.

" I cannot endure the thought," said Ma-
dame Cheron.

u It is not to be endured," replied Cavi-
gni.

" What can be done to prevent so humi-
liating a mistake ?" rejoined Madame Che-
ron.

u Alas !" I cannot assist you," replied
Cavigni, with a deliberating air. " Your
only chance of refuting the calumny, and
of making people understand what you wish
them to believe, is to persist in your first
assertion; for, when they are told of the
chevalier's want of discernment, it is possi-
ble they may suppose he never presumed to
distress you with his admiration. But then
again— that diffidence which renders you
so insensible to your own perfections — they
will consider this ; and Valancourt's taste
will not be doubted, though you arraign it.
In short, they will, in spite of your endea-
vours, continue to believe, what might very
naturally have occurred to them without
any hint of mine — that the chevalier has
taste enough to admire a beautiful wo-
man."

" All this is very distressing !" said Ma-
dame Cheron, with a profound sigh.

" May I be allowed to ask what is so dis-
tressing ?" said Madame Clairval, who was
struck with the rueful countenance, and
doleful accent with which this was deli-
vered.

" It is a delicate subject," replied Madame
Cheron ; " a very mortifying one to me."—
" I am concerned to hear it," said Madame
Clairval. " I hope nothing has occurred
this evening particularly to distress you ?"
— " Alas, yes ! within this half hour ; and I
know not where the report may end. My
pride was never so shocked before. But I
assure you the report is totally void of
foundation." — " Good God !" exclaimed
Madame Clairval, " what can be done ?

Can you point out any way by which I can
assist or console you."

" The only way by which you can do
either," replied Madame Cheron, " is to
contradict the report wherever you go."

a Well! but pray inform me what I am
to contradict."

" It is so very humiliating, that I know
not how to mention it," continued Madame
Cheron : " but you shall judge. Do you
observe that young man seated near the
bottom of the table, who is conversing witli
Mademoiselle d'Emery ?" — " Yes ; I per-
ceive whom you mean." — " You observe
how little he has the air of a person of con-
dition? I was saying, just now, that I
should not have thought him a gentle-
man, if I had not seen him at this table." —
a Well ! but the report," said Madame
Clairval : " let me understand the subject
of your distress !" — " Ah ! .the subject of my
distress !" replied Madame Cheron : — " this
person, whom nobody knows — (I beg pardon,
madam, I did not consider what I said) —
this impertinent young man, having had the
presumption to address my niece, has, I
fear, given rise to a report that he had
declared himself my admirer. Now only
consider how very mortifying such a report
must be ! You, I know, will feel for my
situation. A woman of. my condition!
Think how degrading even the rumour of
such an alliance must be !"

" Degrading indeed ! my poor friend !"
said Madame Clairval. tf You may rely
upon it, t will contradict the report where-
ever I go." As she said which, she turned
her attention upon another part of the com-
pany ; and Cavigni, who had hitherto ap-
peared a grave spectator of the scene,
now fearing he should be unable to smother
the laugh that convulsed him, walked
abruptly away.

u I perceive you do not know," said the
lady who sat near Madame Cheron, " that
the gentleman you have been speaking of is
Madame CJairval's nephew !" " Impossi-
ble !" exclaimed Madame Cheron ; who
now began to perceive that she had been
totally mistaken in her judgment of Valan-
court, and to praise him aloud with as much
servility as she had before censured him with
frivolous malignity.

Emily, who, during the greater part of
this conversation, had been so absorbed in
thought as to be spared the pain of hearing
it, was now extremely surprised by her
aunt's praise of Valancourt, with whose re-
lationship to Madame Clairval she was un-
acquainted 3 but she was not sorry when
Madame Cheron (who, though she now tried
to appear unconcerned, was really much
embarrassed) prepared to withdraw imme-
diately after supper. Montoni then came to

68

THE MYSTERIES OF ULOLPHO.

haud Madame Cheron to her carriage, and Ca-
vigni, with an arch solemnity of countenance,
followed with Emily ; who, as she wished
them good night, and drew up the glass, saw
Valancourt among the crowd at the gates.
Before the carriage drove off, he disappear-
ed. Madame Cheron forbore to mention him
to Emily ; and, as soon as they reached the
chateau, they separated for the night.

On the following morning, as Emily sat at
breakfast with her aunt, a letter was brought
to her, of which she knew the hand- writing
upon the cover ; and, as she received it with
a trembling hand, Madame Cheron hastily
inquired from whom it came. Emily, with her
leave, broke the seal, and observing the sig-
nature of Valancourt, gave it, unread, to her
aunt, who received it with impatience ; and
as she looked it over, Emily endeavoured to
read on her countenance its contents. Hav-
ing returned the letter to her niece, whose
eyes asked if she might examine it, " Yes,
read it, child," said Madame Cheron, in a
manner less severe than she had expected •
and Emily had, perhaps, never before so
willingly obeyed her aunt. In this letter
Valancourt said little of the interview of the
preceding day, but concluded with declaring
that he would accept his dismission from
Emily only, and with entreating that she
would allow him to wait upon her on the
approaching evening. When she read this
she was astonished at the moderation of
Madame Cheron, and looked at her with ti-
mid expectation, as she said, sorrowfully,—
" What am I to say, madam ?"

Why — vve must see the young man,
I believe," replied her aunt, " and hear what
he has further to say for himself. You may
till him he may come." Emily dared
scarcely credit what she heard. "Yet, stay,"
added Madame Cheron ; " I will tell him so
myself." She called for pen and ink ; Emily
still not daring to trust the emotions she
fe^ and almost sinking beneath them. Her
surprise would have been less, had she over-
heard, on the preceding evening, what
Madame Cheron had not forgotten — that
*alancourt was the nephew of Madame
M air val.

What were the particulars of her aunt's
note Emily did not learn, but the result was
a visit from Valancourt in the evening ;
whom Madame Cheron received alone; and
they had a long conversation before Emily
was called down. When she entered the
room, her aunt was conversing with com-
placency, and she saw the eyes of Valan-
court, as he impatiently rose, animated with
hope.

" We have been talking over this affair,"
said Madame Cheron. " The Chevalier has
been telling me, that the late Monsieur
CUh val was the brother of the Countess de

Duvarney, his mother. I only wish he had
mentioned his relationship to Madame Clair-
val before : I certainly should have consi-
dered that circumstance as a sufficient in
troduction to my house." Valancourt bow-
ed, and was going to address Emily, but her
aunt prevented him. " I have therefore
consented that you shall receive his visits j
and though I will not bind myself by any
promise, or say that I shall consider him as
my nephew, yet I shall permit the inter-
course, and shall look forward to any fur
ther connexion as an event which may pos-
sibly take place in a course of years, pro-
vided the chevalier rises in his profession, or
any circumstance occurs which may make
it prudent for him to take a wife. But
Monsieur Valancourt will observe, and you
too, Emily, that, till that happens, I
positively forbid any thoughts of marry-
ing."

Emily's countenance, during this coarse
speech, varied every instant, and, towards
its conclusion, her distress had so much in-
creased that she was on the point of leaving
the room. Valancourt, meanwhile, scarcely
less embarrassed, did not dare to look at her
for whom she was thus distressed; but,
when Madame Cheron was silent, he said—
" Flattering, madam, as your approbation
is to me — highly as I am honoured by it— I
have yet so much to fear, that I scarcely
dare to hope." — " Pray, sir, explain your-
self," said Madame Cheron — an unexpected
requisition, which embarrassed Valancourt
again, and almost overcame him with con-
fusion, at circumstances, on which, had he
been only a spectator of the scene, he would
have smiled.

" Till I receive Mademoiselle St. Aubert's
permission to accept your indulgence," said
he, falteringly — u till she allows me to
hope—"

" O ! is that all ?" interrupted Madame
Cheron. " Well, I will take upon me to
answer for her. But, at the same time, sir,
give me leave to observe to you, that I am
her guardian, and that I expect, in every in-
stance, that my will is her's."

As she said this, she rose, and quitted the
room, leaving 'Emily and Valancourt in a
state of mutual embarrassment ; and, when
Valancourt's hopes enabled him to overcome
his fears, and to address her with the zeal
and sincerity so natural to him, it was a
considerable time before she was sufficiently
recovered to hear with distinctness his soli-
citations and inquiries.

The conduct of Madame Cheron in this
affair had been entirely governed by selfish
vanity. Valancourt, in his first interview,
had, with great candour, laid open to her the
true state of his present circumstances, and
bis future expectancies, and she, with more

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

tfO

prudence than humanity, had absolutely and
abruptly rejected his suit. She wished her
niece to marry ambitiously; not because
she desired to see her in possession of the
happiness which, rank and wealth are usu-
ally believed to ls»e£tow, but because she de-
sired to partake the importance which such
an alliance would give. When, therefore,
she discovered that Valancourt was the ne-
phew of a person of so much consequence
as Madame Clairval, she became anxious
for the connexion, since the prospect it
afforded of future fortune and distinction for
Emily, promised the exaltation she coveted
for herself. Her calculations concerning
fortune, in this alliance, were guided rather
by her wishes than by any hint of Valan-
court, or strong appearance of probability ;
and, when she rested her expectation on the
wealth of Madame Clairval, she seemed to-
tally to have forgotten that the latter had a
daughter. Valancourt, however, had not
forgotten this circumstance ; and the consi-
deration of it had made him so modest in
his expectations from Madame Clairval, that
he had not even named the relationship in
his first conversation with Madame Cheron.
But whatever might be the future fortune
of Emily, the present distinction which the
connexion would afford for herself was cer-
tain, since the splendour of Madame Clair-
val's establishment was such as to excite the
general envy and partial imitation of the
neighbourhood. Thus had she consented to
involve her niece in an engagement to which
she saw only a distant and uncertain conclu-
sion, with as little consideration of her hap-
piness as when she had so precipitately for-
bidden it : for though she herself possessed
the means of rendering this union not only
certain, but prudent, yet to do so was no
part of her present intention.

From this period Valancourt made fre-
quent visits to Madame Cheron, and Emily
passed in his society the happiest hours she
had known since the death of her father.
They were both too much engaged by the
present moments to give serious considera-
tion to the future. They loved and were
beloved, and saw not, that the very attach-
ment, which formed the delight of their pre-
sent days, might possibly occasion the suf-
ferings of years. Meanwhile, Madame Che-
ron's intercourse with Madame Clairval be-
came more freojient than before, and her
vanity was already gratified by the oppor-
tunity of proclaiming, wherever she went,
the attachment that subsisted between th^ir
nephew and niece.

Montoni was now also become a daily
guest at the chateau, and Emily was com-
pelled to observe, that he really Mas a
suitor, and a favoured suitor, to her aunt.

Thus passed the winter months, not or.ly
in peace, but in happiness, to Valancourt

and Emily; the station of his reghncut be-
ing so near Thoulouse, as to allow this fre-
quent intercourse. The pavilion on the.
terrace was the favourite scene of their in-
terviews, and there Emily, with Madame
Cheron, would work, while Valancourt read
aloud works of genius and taste, listened to
her enthusiasm, expressed his own, and
caught new opportunities of observing that
their minds were formed to constitute the
happiness of each other ; the same taste, the
same noble and benevolent sentiments ani-
mating each.

CHAP. XIV.

" As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles,
Plac'd far amid the melancholy main,
(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,
Or that aerial beings sometimes deign
To stand embodied to our senses plain,)
Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,
The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain,
A vasJLassembly moving to and fro,
Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show."
CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

Madame Cheron's avarice at length
yielded to her vanity. Some very splendid
entertainments which Madame Clairval had
given, and the general adulation which was
paid her, made the former more anxious
than before to secure an alliance that would
so much exalt her in her own opinion and in
that of the world. She proposed terms for the
immediate marriage of her niece, and offered
to give Emily a dower, provided Madame
Clairval observed equal terms on the part of
her nephew. Madame Clairval listened to
the proposal, and, considering Emily was
the apparent heiress of her aunt's wealth,
accepted it. Meanwhile Emily knew no-
thing of the transaction till Madame Cheron
informed her, that she must make prepara-
tion for the nuptials, which would be cele
bra ted without further delay ; then, asto-
nished, and wholly unable to account for
this sudden conclusion, which Valancourt
had not solicited (for he was ignorant of
what had passed between the elder ladies,
and had not dared to hope such good for-
tune,) she decisively objected to it. Ma-
dame Cheron, however, quite as jealous of
contradiction now as she had been formerly,
contended for a speedy marriage with as
much vehemence as she had formerly op-
posed whatever had the most remote possi-
bility of leading to it 5 and Emily's scruples
disappeared, when she again saw Valancourt,
who was now informed of the happiness de-
signed for him, and came to claim a pro-
mise of it from herself.

While preparations were making for these
nuptials, Montoni became the acknowledged
lover of Madame Cheron ; and, though Mar
dame Clairval was much displeased when
she heard of the approaching connexion,
and was willing to prevent that of Valau-
court with Emily, her conscience told her

70

Tllfi MYSTERIES OF (JDOLPHO.

hat she had no right thiis to trifle with their
peace, and Madame Clairval, though a wo-
man of fashion, was far less advanced than
her friend in the art of deriving satisfaction
from distinction and admiration rather than
from conscience.

Emily observed with concern the ascen-
dancy which Montoni had acquired over
Madame Cheron* as well as the increasing
frequency of his visits ; and her own opi-
nion of this Italian was confirmed by that
of Valancourt, who had always expressed a
dislike of him. As she was, one morning,
sitting at work in the pavilion, enjoying the
pleasant freshness of spring, whose colours
were now spread upon the landscape, and
listening to Valancourt, who was reading,
but who often laid aside the book to con-
verse, she received a summons to attend
Madame Cheron immediately, and had
scarcely entered the dressing-room, when
she observed with surprise the dejection of
her aunt's countenance, and the contrasted
gaiety of her dress. u So, niece !" said Ma-
dame Cheron, and she stopped under some
degree of embarrassment—" I sent for you :
T — I wished to see you : I have news to tell
you : from this hour you must consider the
Signor Montoni as your uncle — we were
married this morning."

Astonished— not so much at the marriage,
as at the secresy with which it had been
concluded, and the agitation with which it
was announced — Emily, at length, attribut-
ed the privacy to the wish of Montoni, ra*
ther than of her aunt. His wife, however,
intended that the contrary should be believ-
ed, and therefore added, " You see I wished
to avoid a bustle ; but now the ceremony is
over, I shall do so no longer, and I wish to
announce to my servants that they must
receive the Signor Montoni for their mas-
ter." Emily made a feeble attempt to con-
gratulate her on these apparently imprudent
nuptials. " I shall now celebrate my mar-
riage with some splendour," continued Ma-
dame Montoni ; " and, to save time, I shall
avail myself of the preparation that has
been made for your's, which will, of course,
be delayed a little while. Sueh of your
wedding clothes as are ready, I shall expect
you will appear in, to do honour to this fes-
tival. I also wish you to inform Monsieur
Valancourt that I have changed my name ;
and he will acquaint Madame Clairval. In
a few days I shall give a grand entertain-
ment, at which I shall request their pre-
sence."

Emily was so lost in surprise and various
thought, that she made Madame Montoni
scarcely any reply ; but, at her desire, she
returned to inform Valancourt of what had
passed. Surprise was not his predominant
emotion on hearing of these hasty nuptials ;
and when he learned that they were to be

the means of delaying his own, and that the
very ornaments of the chateau which had
been prepared to grace the nuptial-day of
his Emily were to he degraded to the cele
bration of Madame Montoni's, grief and
indignation agitated him alternately. He
could conceal neither from the observation
of Emily ; whose efforts to abstract him
from these serious emotions* and to laugh at
the apprehensive considerations that assailed
him, were ineffectual ; and when, at length,
he took leave, there was an earnest tender-
ness in his manner that extremely affected
her : she even shed tears when he disap-
peared at the end of the terrace, yet knew
not exactly why she should do so.

Montoni now took possession of the cha-
teau, and the command of its inhabitants,
with the ease of a man who had long consi-
dered it to be hi: own. His friend Cavigni,who
had been extremely serviceable in having
paid Madame Cheron the attention and flat-
tery which she required, but from which
Montoni too often revolted, had apartments
assigned to him, and received from the do-
mestics an equal degree of obedience with
the master of the mansion.

Within a few days, Madame Montoni, as
she had promised, gave a magnificent enter-
tainment to a very numerous company 5
among whom was Valancourt } but at which
Madame Clairval excused herself from at-
tending. There was a concert, ball, and
supper. Valancourt was, of course, Emi-
ly's partner, and though, when he gave a
look to the decorations of the apartments, he
could not but remember that they were de-
signed for other festivities than those they
now contributed to celebrate, he endeavour-
ed to check his concern, by considering that
a little while only would elapse before they
would be given to their original destination.
During this evening, Madame Montoni
danced, laughed, and talked incessantly ;
while Montoni, silent, rsserved, and some-
what haughty, seemed weary of the parade,
and of the frivolous company it had drawn
together.

This was the first and the last entertain-
ment given in celebration of their nuptials.
Montoni, though the severity of his temper,
and the gloominess of his pride, prevented
him from enjoying such festivities, was ex-
tremely willing to promote them. It was
seldom that he could meet, in any company,
a man of more address, and still seldomer
one of more understanding, than himself:
the balance of advantage in such parties, or
in the connexions which might arise from
them, must, therefore, be on his side ; ancl
knowing, as he did, the selfish purposes fov
which they are generally frequented, he bad
no objection to measure his talents of dissi-
mulation with those of any other competitor
for distinction and plu nder : but his wifc>

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

rho, whert her own interest was immediately
concerned, had sometimes more discernment
than vanity, acquired a consciousness of her
inferiority to other women in personal at-
tractions, which, uniting with the jealousy
natural to the discovery, counteracted his
readiness for mingling with all the parties
Thoulouse could afford. Till she had, as
she supposed, the affections of a husband to
lose, she had no motive for discovering the
unwelcome truth, and it had never obtruded
itself upon her ; but, now that it influenced
her policy, she opposed her husband's incli-
nation for company, with the more eager-
ness, because she believed him to be really
as well received in the female society of the
place, as, during his addresses to her, he had
affected to be.

A few weeks only had elapsed since the
marriage, when Madame Montoni informed
Emily, that the signor intended to return to
Italy as sooi as the necessary preparation
could be made for so long a journey. " We
bhall go to Venice," said she, u where the
signor has a fine mansion ; and »rom thence
to his estate in Tuscany. — Wl y uo you look
so grave, child? You, who are so fohd of a
romantic country and fine views, will doubt-
less be delighted with this journey."

" Am I then to be of the party. Ma
dam?" said Emily, with extreme surprise
and emotion. — " Most certainly," replied
ner aunt : " how could you imagine we
should leave you behind ? But I see yon
are thinking of the chevalier : he is not yd.
- believe, informed of the journey ; but he
very soon will be so : Signor Montoni is
gone to acquaint Madame Clairval of our
journey, and to say, that the proposed con-
nexion between the families must from this
time be thought of no more."

The unfeeling manner in which Madame
Montoni thus informed her niece that she
must be separated, perhaps for ever, from the
man with whom she was on the point of be-
ing united for life, added to the dismay
which she must otherwise have suffered at
such intelligence. When she could speak,
she asked the cause of the sudden change of
madame's sentiments towards Valancourt 5
but the only reply she could obtain was,
that the signor had forbade the connexion,
considering it to be greatly inferior to what
Emily might reasonably expect.

" I now leave the affair entirely to the
signor," added Madame Montoni j '« but I
must say, that M. Valancourt never was a
favourite with me ; and I was over-persuad
ed, or I should not have given my consent
to the connexion. I was weak enough— I
am so foolish sometimes ! — to suffer other
people's uneasiness to affect me ; and so my
better judgment yielded to your affliction.
But the signor has very properly pointed
out the folly of this ; and ha shall not

have to reprove me a second time. I am
determined that you shall submit to those
who know how to guide you better than
yourself — I am determined that you shall be
conformable." Emily would have been as-
tonished at the assertions of this eloquent
speech, had not her mind been so over-
whelmed by the sudden shock it had re-
ceived that she scarcely heard a word of
what was latterly addressed to her. What-
ever were the weaknesses of Madame Mon-
toni, she might have avoided to accuse her-
self with those of compassion and tenderness
to the feelings of others, and especially to
those of Emily. It was the same ambition
that lately prevailed upon her to solicit an
alliance with Madame Clairvai's family,
which induced her to withdraw from it, now
that her marriage with Montoni had exalted
her self-consequence, and with it, her views
f n- her niece.

Emily was, at this time, too much affect-
ed to employ either remonstrance or en
treaty on this topic •, and when, at length,
sue attempted the latter, her emotion over-
came her speech, and she retired to her
apartment, to think (if in the present state
of her mind to think was possible) upon this
sudden and overwhelming subject. It was
very long before her spirits were sufficiently
composed to permit the reflection j which,
when it came, was dark, and even terrible.
She saw that Montoni sought to aggrandise
& jmself in his disposal of her ; and it occur-
red that his friend Cavigni was the person
for whom he was interested. The prospecr
of going to Italy was still rendered darker,
when she considered the tumultuous situa-
tion of that country— then torn by civil com-
motion ; where every petty state was at war
with its neighbour, and even every castle
liable to the attack of an invader. She con-
sidered the person to whose immediate
guidance she would be committed, and the
vast distance that was to separate her from
Valancourt ; and, at the recollection of him,
every other image vanished from her mind,
and every thought was again obscured by
grief.

In this perturbed state she passed some
hours 5 and, when she was summoned to
dinner, she entreated permission to remain
in her own apartment : but Madame Mon-
toni was alone, and the request was refused.
Emily and her aunt said little during the
repast — the one occupied by her griefs, the
other engrossed by the disappointment
which the unexpected absence of Montoni
occasioned ; for not only was her vanity
piqued by the neglect, but her jealousy
alarmed by what she considered as a myste*-
rious engagement. When the cloth was
drawn, anci they were alone, Emily renewed
the mention of Valancourt 5 but her aunt,
neither softened to pity, nor awakened 10

'2

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

remorse, became enraged that her will should
be opposed, and the authority of Montoni
questioned, though this was done by Emily
with her usual gentleness ; who, after a
long and torturing conversation, retired in
tears.

As she crossed the hall, a person entered
it by the great door, whom, as her eyes has-
tily glanced that way, she imagined to be
Montoni j and she was passing on with
quicker steps, when she heard the well-
known voice of Valancourt.

" Emily, O my Emily !" cried he, in a
tone faltering with impatience, while she
turned, and, as he advanced, was alarmed at
the expression of his countenance and the
eager desperation of his air. " In tears,
Emily ! — I would speak with you," said he -,
u I have much to say : conduct me where
we may converse.— But you tremble— you
are ill ! Let me lead you to a seat."

He observed the open door of an apart-
ment, and hastily took her hand to lead her
thither , but she attempted to withdraw it,
and said, with a languid smile, " I am bet-
ter already : if you wish to see my aunt,
she is in the dining- parlour." — " I must
speak with you> my Emily," replied Valan-
court. " Good God ! is it already come to
tliis ? Are you indeed so willing to resign
me ? — But this is an improper place — I am
overheard. Let me entreat your attention,
if only for a few minutes." — " When you
have seen my aunt," said Emily. — " I was
wretched enough when I came hither," ex-
claimed Valancourt : do not increase my
misery by this coldness, this cruel re-
fusal !"

The despondency with which he spoke
this, affected her almost to tears 5 but she
persisted in refusing to hear him till he had
conversed with Madame Montoni. " Where
is her husband ? where, then, is Montoni ?"
said Valancourt, in an altered tone : u it is
he to whom I must speak."

Emily, terrified for the consequence of the
indignation that flashed in his eyes, trem-
blingly assured him that Montoni was not at
home, and entreated he would endeavour to
moderate his resentment. At the tremulous
accents of her voice his eyes softened in-
stantly from wildness into tenderness.
" You are ill, Emily," said he—" They will
destroy us both ! Forgive me, that I dared
to doubt your affection."

Emily no longer opposed him, as he led
her into an adjoining parlour. The manner
in which he had named Montoni had so
much alarmed her for his own safety, that
she was now ouly anxious to prevent the
consequences of his just resentment. He
listened to her entreaties with attention, but
replied to them only with looks of despon-
dency and tenderness j concealing, as much
&s possible, the sentiments he felt tow-aids

Montoni, that he might sooth the apprehen-
sions which distressed her. But she saw the
veil he had spread over his resentment •, and
his assumed tranquillity only alarming her
more, she urged, at length, the impolicy oi
forcing an interview with Montoni, and of
taking any measure which might render their
separation irremediable. Valancourt yield-
ed to these remonstrances j and her affect-
ing entreaties drew from him a promise,
that, however Montoni might persist in his
design of disuniting them, he would not
seek to redress his wrongs by violence.—
" For my sake," said Emily, " let the con-
sideration of what I should suffer deter yon
from such a mode of revenge !"—« For your
sake, Emily !" replied Valancourt, his eyes
filling with tears of tenderness and grief
while he gazed upon her. " Yes — yes-*-I
shall subdue myself. But, though I have
given you my solemn promise to do this, do
not expect that I can tamely submit to the
authority of Montoni : if I could, I should
be unworthy of you. Yet, O Emily ! how
long may he condemn me to live without
you— how long may it be before you return
to France !"

Emily endeavoured to sooth him with as-
surances of her unalterable affection,, and by
representing that, in little more than a year,
she should be her own mistress as far as re-
lated to her aunt, from whose guardianship
her age would then release her— assurances
which gave little consolation to Valan-
court, who considered that she would then
be in Italy, and in the power of those whose
dominion over her would not cease with
their rights : but he affected to be consoled
by them. Emily, comforted by the promise
she had obtained, and by his apparent com-
posure, was about to leave him, when her
aunt entered the room. She threw a glance
of sharp reproof upon her niece, who imme-
diately withdrew, and of haughty displeasure
upon Valancourt.

" This is not the conduct I should have
expected from you, sir," said she : " I did
not expect to see you in my house, after you
had been informed that your visits were no
longer agreeable ; much less, that you would
seek a clandestine interview with my niece,
and that she would grant one." Valancourt
perceiving it necessary to vindicate Emily
from such a design, explained, that the pur-
pose of his own visit had been to request an
interview with Montoni ; and he then en-
tered upon the subject of it, with the tem-
pered spirit which the sex, rather than the
respectability, of Madame Montoni de-
manded.

His expostulations were answered with
severe rebuke : she lamented again, that her
prudence had ever yielded to what she
termed com passion ; and added, that she was
so sensible of the folly of her former consent,

THE MVSTER1ES OF UDOLPHO.

13

that, to prevent the possibility of a repeti-
tion, she had committed the affair entirely
to the conduct of Signor Montoni.

The feeling eloquence of Valancourt, how-
ever, at length made her sensible, in some
measure, of her unworthy conduct ; and she
became susceptible to shame but not re-
morse : she hated Valancourt, who awaken-
ed her to this painful sensation ; and, in pro-
portion as she grew dissatisfied with herself,
her abhorrence of him increased. This was
also the more inveterate, because his tem-
pered words and manner were such as, with-
out accusing her, compelled her to accuse
herself, and neither left her hope that the
odious portrait was the caricature of his
prejudice, nor afforded her an excuse for
expressing the violent resentment with which
she contemplated it. At length, her anger
rose to such an height, that Valancourt was
compelled to leave the house abruptly, lest
he should forfeit his own esteem by an in-
temperate reply. He was then convinced,
that from Madame Montoni he had nothing
to hope ; for what, of either pity or j ustice,
could be expected from a person who could
feel the pain of guilt without the humility
of repentance ?

To Montoni he looked with equal despon
dency ; since it was nearly evident that this
plan of separation originated with him, and it
was not probable that he would relinquish his
own views to entreaties or remonstrances
which he must have foreseen, and have been
prepared to resist. Yet, remembering his
promise to Emily, and more solicitous con-
cerning his love than jealous of his conse-
quence, Valancourt was careful to do no-
thing that might unnecessarily irritate Mon-
toni : he wrote to him, therefore, not to de-
mand an interview, but to solicit one ; and,
having done this, he endeavoured to wait
with calmness his reply.

Madame Clairval was passive in the affair.
When she gave her approbation to Valan
court's marriage, it was in the belief that
Emily would be the heiress of Madame
Montoni's fortune; and though, upon the
nuptials of the latter, when she perceived
the fallacy of this expectation, her conscience
had withheld her from adopting any mea-
sure to prevent the union, her benevolence
was not sufficiently active to impel her to-
wards any step that might now promote it.
She was, on the contrary, secretly pleased
that Valancourt was released from an en-
gagement, which she considered to be as in-
ferior, in point of fortune, to his merit, as
his alliance was thought by Montoni to be
humiliating to the beauty of Emily ; and,
though her pride was wounded by this re-
jection of a member of her family, she dis-
dained to show resentment otherwise than by
silence.

Montoni, in his reply to Valancourt, said,

that, as an interview could neither remove
the objections of the one, nor overcome the
wishes of the other, it would serve only to
produce useless altercation between them
he therefore thought proper to refuse it.

In consideration of the policy suggested
by Emily, and of his promise to her, Valan-
court restrained the impulse that urged him
:o the house of Montoni, to demand wha
had been denied to his entreaties ; he only
repeated his solicitations to see him ; second-
ing them with all the arguments his situa-
tion could suggest. Thus, several days
passed in remonstrance on one side, and
inflexible denial on the other ; for whether
it was fear, or shame, or the hatred which
results from both, that made Montoni shun
the man he had injured, he was peremptory
in his refusal, and was neither softened to
pity by the agony which Valancourt's letters
pourtrayed, nor awakened to a repentance
of his own injustice by the strong remon-
strances he employed. At length Valan-
court's letters were returned unopened ; and
then, in the first moments of passionate
despair, he forgot every promise to Emily,
except the solemn one which bound him to
avoid violence, and hastened to Montoni's
chateau, determined to see him by whatever
other means might be necessary. Montoni
was denied ; and Valancourt, when he after-
wards inquired for Madame and Ma'amselle
St. Aubert, was absolutely refused admit-
tance by the servants. Not choosing to
submit himself to a contest with these, he
at length departed 5 and returning home in
a state of mind approaching to phrensy,
wrote to Emily of what had passed— ex-
pressed without restraint all the agony of
his heart — and entreated that, since he must
not otherwise hope to see her immediately,
she would allow him an interview unknown
to Montoni. Soon after he had dispatched
this, his passions becoming more temperate,
he was sensible of the error he had com-
mitted, in having given Emily new subject
of distress in the strong mention of his own
suffering, and would have given half the
world, had it been his, to recover the letter.
Emily, however, was spared the pain she
must have received from it, by the suspicious
policy of Madame Montoni ; who had or
dered, that all letters addressed to her niece
should be delivered to herself, and who, after
having perused this, and indulged the ex-
pressions of resentment which Valancourt 's
mention of Montoni provoked, had consigned
it to the flames.

Montoni, meanwhile, every day more ira
patient to leave France, gave repeated
orders for dispatch to the servants employed
in preparations for the journey, and to the
persons with whom he was transacting some
particular business. He preserved a stead \
silence to the letters in which Valancourt

14

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

despairing a( greater good, arid having sub*
dued the passion that had transgressed
against his policy, solicited only the indul-
gence of being allowed to bid Emily farewell.
But when Valancourt learned that she was
really to set out in a very few days, and that
it was designed he should see her no more,
forgetting every consideration of prudence,
he dared, in a second letter to Emily, to
propose a clandestine marriage. This also
was transmitted to Madame Montoni ; and
the last day of Emily's stay at Thoulouse
arrived, without affording Valancourt even
a line to sooth his sufferings, or a hope
that he should be allowed a parting inter-
view.

During this period of torturing suspense
to Valancourt, Emily was sunk into that
kind of stupor with which sudden and irre-
mediable misfortune sometimes overwhelms
the mind. Loving him with the tenderest
affection, and having long been accustomed
to consider him as the friend and companion
of all her future days, she had no ideas of
happiness that were not connected with him.
What, then, must have been her suffering,
when thus suddenly they were to be sepa-
rated, perhaps for ever! — certainly to be
thrown into distant parts of the world, where
they could scarcely hear of each other's ex-
istence 5 — and all this in obedience to the
will of a stranger (for such was Montoni),
and of a person who had but lately been
anxious to hasten their nuptials! It was
in vain that she endeavoured to subdue her
grief, and resign herself to an event which
she could not avoid. The silence of Valan-
court afflicted more than it surprised her,
since she attributed it to its just occasion 5
but when the day preceding that on which
she was to quit Thoulouse arrived, and she
heard no mention of his being permitted to
take leave of her, grief overcame every con-
sideration that had made her reluctant to
speak of him, and she inquired of Madame
Montoni whether this consolation had been
refused. Her aunt informed her that it had ;
adding, that, after the provocation she haa
herself received from Valancourt in their
last interview, and the persecution which
the signor had suffered from his letters, no
entreaties should avail to procure it. — " If
the chevalier expected this favour from us,"
said she, " he should have conducted him-
self in a very different manner : he should
have waited patiently, till he knew whether
we were disposed to grant it, and not have
come and reproved me, because I did not
think proper to bestow my niece upon him,
and then have persisted in troubling the
signor, because he did not think proper to
enter into any dispute about so childish an
affair. His behaviour, throughout, has been
extremely presumptuous and impertinent ♦,
2nd I desire that I may never hear his name

repeated, and that you will get the better
of those foolish sorrows and whims, and
look like other people, and not appear with
that dismal countenance, as if you were
ready to cry ; for, though you say nothing,
you cannot conceal your grief from my
penetration : I can see you are ready to cry
at this moment, though I am reproving you
for it — ay, even now in spite of my com-
mands."

Emily, having turned away to hide her
tears, quitted the room to indulge them ;
and the day was passed in an intensity of
anguish, snch as she had, perhaps, never
known before. When she withdrew to her
chamber for the night, she remained in the
chair where she had placed herself on
entering the room, absorbed in her grief, till
long after every member of the family,
except herself, was retired to rest. She
could not divest herself of a belief that she
had parted with Valancourt to meet no
more — a belief which did not arise merely
from foreseen circumstances ; for, though
the length of the journey she was about to
commence, the uncertainty as to the period
of her return, together with the prohibitions
she had received, seemed to justify it, she
yielded also to an impression, which she
mistook for a presentiment, that she was
going from Valancourt for ever. How
dreadful to her imagination, too, was the
distance that would separate them — the Alps,
those tremendous barriers ! would rise, and
whole countries extend between the regions
where each must exist ! To live in adjoining
provinces, to live even in the same country,
though without seeing him, was comparative
happiness, to the conviction of this dreadful
length of distance.

Her mind was at length so much agitated
by the consideration of her state, and the
belief that she had seen Valancourt for the
last time, that she suddenly became very
faint, and, looking round the chamber for
something that might revive her, she observ-
ed the casements, and had just strength to
throw one open, near which she seated
herself. The air recalled her spirits, and
the still moon-light, that fell upon the elms
of a long avenue fronting the window, some-
what soothed them, and determined her to
try whether exercise and the open air Mould
not relieve the intense pain that bound her
temples. In the chateau all was still 5 and,
passing down the great staircase into the
hall, from whence a passage led immediately
to the garden, she softly, and unheard, as she
tliought, unlocked the door, and entered the
avenue. Emily passed on, with steps now
hurried and now faltering, as, deceived by the
shadows among the trees, she fancied she
saw some person move in the distant per-
spective, and feared that it was a spy oi
Madame Montoni. Her desire, however, to

rim Mysteries of trixxLrao.

n

fevisit the pavilion where she had passed so
many happy hours with Valancourt, and
had admired with him the extensive prospect
over Languedoc and her native Gascony,
overcame her apprehension of being ob-
served, and she moved on towards the
terrace* which, running along the upper
garden, commanded the whole of the lower
one, and communicated with it by a flight
of marble steps that terminated the avenue.

Having reached these steps, she paused a
moment to look round ; for her distance
from the chateau now increased the fear
which the stillness and obscurity of the hour
had awakened. But, perceiving nothing
that could justify it, she ascended to the
terrace; where the moon-light showed the
long broad walk, with the pavilion at its
extremity, while the rays silvered the foliage
of the high trees and shrubs that bordered it
on the right, and the tufted summits of
those that rose to a level with the balustrade
on. the left from the garden below. Her
distance from the chateau again alarming her,
she paused to listen : the night was so calm
that no sound could have escaped ; but she
heard only the plaintive sweetness of the
nightingale, with the light shiver of the
leaves, and she pursued her way towards
the pavilion; having reached which, its
obscurity did not prevent the emotion that
a fuller view of its well-known scene would
have excited. The lattices were thrown
back, and showed beyond their embowered
arch the moon-light landscape, shadowy
and soft— its groves and plains extending
gradually and indistinctly to the eye ; its
distant mountains catching a stronger
gleam ; and the nearer river reflecting the
moon and trembling to her rays.

Emily, as she approached the lattice, was
sensible of the features of this scene only as
they served to bring Valancourt more
immediately to her fancy. " Ah !" said
she, with a heavy sigh, as she threw herself
into a chair by the window, " how often
have we sat together in this spot — often
have looked upon that landscape ! Never,
never more shall we view it together! —
never, never more, perhaps, shall we look
upon each other !"

Her tears were suddenly stopped by terror;
a voice spoke near her in the pavilion — she
shrieked : it spoke again ; and she distin-
guished the well-known tones of Valancourt.
It was, indeed, Valancourt who supported
her in his arms ! For some moments their
emotion would not suffer either to speak. —
" Emily !" said Valancourt at length, as he
pressed her hand in his, " Emily !"— and he
*yas again silent ; but the accent in which he
Aad pronounced her name, expressed all his
tenderness and sorrow.

" O my Emily !" he resumed, after a long
oause, " I do then see you once again, and

hear again the sound of that voice ! I have
haunted this place, these gardens— for
many, many nights— with a faint, very faint
hope of seeing you. This was the only
chance that remained for me; and, thank
Heaven! it has at length succeeded — I am
not condemned to absolute despair !"

Emily said something, she scarcely knew
what, expressive of her unalterable affec-
tion, and endeavoured to calm the agitation/
of his mind ; but Valancourt could for some
time only utter incoherent expressions of
his emotions; and, when he was somewhat;
more composed, he said, " I came hither
soon after sun-set, and have been watching
in the gardens, and in this pavilion, ever
since ; for, though I had now given up all
hope of seeing you, I could not resolve to
tear myself from a place so near to you,
and should probably have lingered about the
chateau till morning dawned. O, how hea-
vily the moments have passed, yet with
what various emotions have they been
marked, as I sometimes thought I heard
footsteps, and fancied you were approach-
ing, and then again — perceived only a dead
and dreary silence! But, when you opened
the door of the pavilion, and the darkness
prevented my distinguishing with certainty
whether it was my love, my heart beat so
strongly with hopes and fears, that I could
not speak. The instant I heard the plain-
tive accents of your voice, my doubts
vanished — but not my fears, till you spoke
of me ; then, losing the apprehension of
alarming you in the excess of my emotion,
I could no longer be silent. Oh, Emily,
these are moments, in which joy and grief
struggle so powerfully for pre-eminence, that
the heart can scarcely support the contest !"
Emily's heart acknowledged the truth of
this assertion. But the joy she felt on thus
meeting Valancourt, at the very moment
when she was lamenting that they must
probably meet no more, soon melted into
grief, as reflection stole over her thoughts,
and imagination prompted visions of the
future. She struggled to recover the calm
dignity of mind which was necessary to
support her through this last interview, and
which Valancourt found it utterly impos-
sible to attain; for the transports of his
joy changed abruptly into those of suffer-
ing, and he expressed, in the most impas-
sioned language, his horror of this separa-
tion, and his despair of their ever meeting
again. Emily wept silently as she listened
to him ; and then, trying to command her
own distress, and to sooth his, she suggest-
ed every circumstance that could lead to
hope. But the energy of his fears led him
instantly to detect the friendly fallacies
which she endeavoured to impose on herself
and him, and also to conjure up illusions
too powerful for his reason.

THE MYSTERIES OF UJDOI J>HO.

M You are going from me," said he, " to
a distant country— O, how distant!— to
new society, new friends, new admirers ! —
with people, too, who will try to make you
forget me, and to promote new connexions !
How can I know this, and not know that
you will never return for me — never can be
mine I" His voice was stifled by sighs.

" You believe then," said Emily, " that
the pangs I suffer proceed from a trivial
and temporary interest : you believe — "

" Suffer," interrupted Valancourt, " suf-
fer, for me! O Emily, how sweet, how
bitter, are those words ! what comfort, what
anguish, do they give ! I ought not to
doubt the steadiness of your affection j yet
such is the inconsistency of real love, that
it is always awake to suspicion, however
unreasonable — always requiring new assu-
rances from the object of its interest : and
thus it is, that I always feel revived, as by
a new conviction, when your words tell me
I am dear to yon; and, wanting these, I
relapse into doubt, and too often into
despondency." Then, seeming to recollect
himself, he exclaimed, " But what a wretch
am I, thus to torture you, and in these
moments too! — I, who ought to support
and comfort you!"

This reflection overcame Valancourt with
tenderness ; but, relapsing into despondency,
he again felt only for himself, and lamented
again this cruel separation, in a voice and
words so impassioned, that Emily could no
longer struggle to repress her own grief, or
to sooth his. Valancourt, between these
emotions of love and pity, lost the power,
and almost the wish, of repressing his agi-
tation ; and, in the intervals of convulsive
sobs, he at one moment kissed away her
fears •, then told her, cruelly, that possibly
the might never again weep for him ; and
then tried to speak more calmly, but only
exclaimed, " O, Emily — my heart will
break ! — I cannot, cannot leave you ! Now
I gaze upon that countenance, now I hold you
in my arms! — a little while, and all this will
appear a dream : I shall look, and cannot
see you ; shall try to recollect your features,
and the impression will be fled from my
imagination \ to hear the tones of your
voice, and even memory will be silent ; — I
cannot, cannot leave you ! — Why should we
confide the happiness of our whole lives to
the will of people who have no right to
interrupt, and, except in giving you to me,
have no power to promote it? O Emily,
venture to trust your own heart — venture
to be mine for ever !" His voice trembled,
and he was silent. Emily continued to weep,
and was silent also \ when Valancourt pro-
ceeded to propose an immediate marriage,
and that, at an early hour on the following
morning, she should quit Madame Moti-

toni's house, and be conducted by him to
the church of the Augustines, where a friar
should await to unite them.

The silence with which she listened to
a proposal dictated by love and despair,
and enforced at a moment when it seemed
scarcely possible for her to oppose it, — when
her heart was softened by the sorrows of a
separation that might be eternal, and her
reason obscured by the illusions of love art)
terror— encouraged him to hope that \.
would not be rejected. — "Speak, my Emi-
ly," said Valancourt eagerly : " let me hear
your voice, let me hear you confirm my
fate." She spoke not : her cheek was cold,
and her senses seemed to fail her ; but she
did not faint. To Valancourfs terrified
imagination she appeared to be dying : he
called upon her name, rose to go to the
chateau for assistance, and then, recollect
ing her situation, feared to go, or to leave
her for a moment.

After a few minutes, she drew a deep
sigh, and began to revive. The conflict she
had suffered, between love and the duty she
at present owed to her father's sister ; her
repugnance to a clandestine marriage *, her
fear of emerging on the world with embar-
rassments, such as might ultimately involve
the object of her affection in misery and
repentance — all this various interest was
too powerful for a mind already enervated
by sorrow, and her reason had suffered a
transient suspension. But duty and good
sense, however hard the conflict, at length
triumphed over affection aad mournful pre-
sentiment. Above all, she dreaded to in-
volve Valancourt in obscurity and vain
regret, which she saw, or thought she saw,
must be the too certain consequence of a
marriage in their present circumstances ;
and she acted, perhaps, with somewhat
more than female fortitude, when she resol-
ved to endure a present, rather than provoke
a distant, misfortune.

With a candour that proved how truly
she esteemed and loved him, and which
endeared her to him, if possible, more than
ever, she told Valancourt all her reasons for
rejecting his proposals. Those which infiu
enced her concerning his future welfare, he
instantly refuted, or rather contradicted-,
but they awakened tender considerations
for her, which the phrensy of passion and
despair had concealed before 5 and love,
which had but lately prompted him to
propose a clandestine and immediate mar-
riage, now induced him to renounce it.
The triumph was almost too much for his
heart : for Emily's sake he endeavoured to
stifle his grief j but the swelling anguish
would not be restrained : — " O Emily !"
said he, " I must leave you — I must leave
you, and I know it is for ever !"

Convulsive sobs again interrupted his

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

7?

words, and they wept together in silence ;
tiii Emily, recollecting the danger of being
discovered, and the impropriety of prolong-
ing an interview which might subject her to
censure, summoned all her fortitude to utter
a last farewell !

"Stay !" said Valancourt, "I conjure you
stay, for I have much to tell you. The
agitation of my mind has hitherto siuTered
me to speak only on the subject that occu-
pied it : I have forborne to mention a doubt
of much importance, partly lest it should
appear as if I told it with an ungenerous
view of alarming you into a compliance
with my late proposal."

Emily, much agitated, did not leave
Valancourt, but she led him from the pa-
vilion *, and, as they walked upon the ter-
race, he proceeded as follows :

" This Montoni : I have heard some
strange hints concerning him : are you cer-
tain he is of Madame Quesnel's family, and
that his fortune is what it appears to be ?"

" I have no reason to doubt either," re-
plied Emily, in a voice of alarm. " Of
the first, indeed, I cannot doubt, but 1 have
no certain means of judging of the latter,
and I entreat you will tell me all you have
heard."

" That I certainly will ; but it is very im-
perfect and unsatisfactory information : I
gathered it by accident from an Italian,
who was speaking to another person of this
Montoni. They were talking of his marri-
age : the Italian said, that if he was the
person he meant, he was not likely to make
Madame Cheron happy. He proceeded to
speak of him in general terms of dialike,
and then gave some particular hints con-
cerning his character, that excited my
curiosity, and I ventured to ask him a few
questions. He was reserved in his replies ;
but, after hesitating for some time, he
owned, that he had understood abroad, that
Montoni was a man of desperate fortune and
character. He said something of a castle
of Montoni's, situated among the Apen-
nines, and of some strange circumstances,
that might be mentioned, as to his former
mode of life. I pressed him to inform me
further ; but I believe the strong interest
I felt was visible in my manner, and alarm-
ed him, for no entreaties could prevail with
him to give any explanation of the circum-
stances he had alluded to, or to mention
any thing further concerning Montoni. I
observed to him, that if Montoni was pos-
sessed of a castle in the Apennines, it
appeared from such a circumstance that he
was of some family, and also seemed to
contradict the report that he was a man of
entirely broken fortunes. He shook his
head, and looked as if he could have said a
great deal, but made no reply.

" A hope of learning something more

satisfactory, or more positive, detained me
in his company a considerable time, and I
renewed the subject repeatedly ; but the
Italian wrapped himself up in reserve, said
that what he had mentioned he had caught
only from floating reports, and that reports
frequently arose from personal malice, .and
were very little to be depended upon. I
forbore to press the subject furtier, since
it was obvious that he was alarmed for the
consequence of what he had already said j and
I was compelled to remain in uncertainty on
a point where suspence is almost intolerable,.
Think, Emily, what I must suffer, to see
you depart for a foreign country, commit-
ted to the power of a man of such doubtful
character as is this Montoni ! But I will
not alarm you unnecessarily : it is possible,
as the Italian said at first, that this is not
the Montoni he alluded to ; yet, Emily,
consider well before you resolve to commit
yourself to him. O ! I must not trust my-
self to speak — or I shall renounce all the
motives which so lately influenced me to
resign the hope of your becoming mine
immediately.

Valancourt walked upon the terrace with
hurried steps, while Emily remained leaning
on the balustrade in deep thought. The
information she had just received excited,
perhaps, more alarm than it could justify,
and raised once more the conflict of con-
trasted interests. She had never liked Mon-
toni : the fire and keenness of his eye, its
proud exultation, its bold fierceness, its
sullen watchfulness, as occasion, and even
slight occasion, bad called forth the latent
soul, she had often observed with emotion ;
while from the usual expression of his
countenance she had always shrunk. From
such observations, she was the more inclined
to believe that it was this Montoni of whom
the Italian had uttered his suspicious hints.
The thought of being solely in his power, in
a foreign land, was terrifying to her 5 but it
was not by terror alone that she was urged
to an immediate marriage with Valancourt :
the tenderest love had already pleaded his
cause, but had been unable to overcome her
opinion, as to her duty, her disinterested
considerations for Valancourt, and the deli-
cacy which made her revolt from a clan-
destine union. It was not to be expected
that a vague terror would be more powerful
than the united influence of love and grief ;
but it recalled all their energy, and rendered
a second conquest necessary.

With Valancourt, whose imagination was
now awake to the suggestion of every passion ;
whose apprehensions for Emily had acquired
strength by the mere mention of tnem, and
became every instant more powerful as his
mind brooded over them— with Valancourt,
no second conquest was attainable. He
thought he saw, in the clearest light, and

78

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

.ove assisted the fear, that this journey to
Italy would involve Emily in misery : he
determined, therefore, to persevere in op-
posing it, and in conjuring her to bestow
upon him the title of her lawful protector.
"Emily 1" said he, with solemn earnestness,
" this is no time for scrupulous distinctions,
for weighing the dubious and comparatively
trifling circumstances that may affect our
future comfort. I now see, much more
clearly than before, the train of serious dan-
gers you are going to encounter with a
man of Montoni's character. Those dark
hints of the Italian spoke much, but not
more than the idea I have of Montoni's dis-
position, as exhibited even in his counte
nance. I think I see, at this moment, all
that could have been hinted, written there.
He is the Italian whom I fear ; and I con-
jure you, for your own sake, as well as for
mine, to prevent the evils I shudder to fore-
see. O Emily ! let my tenderness, my arms,
withhold you from them — give me the right
to defend you I"
/ Emily only sighed ; while Valancourt pro-
ceeded to remonstrate, and to entreat with
all the energy that love and apprehension
could inspire. But, as his imagination mag-
nified to her the possible evils she was going
to meet, the mists of her own fancy began
to dissipate, and allowed her to distinguish
the exaggerated images which imposed on
his reason. She considered, that there was
no proof of Montoni being the person whom
the stranger had meant 5 that, even if he
was so, the Italian had noticed his character
and broken fortunes merely from report ;
aud that, though the countenance of Mon-
toni seemed to give probability to a part
of the rumour, it was not by such circum-
stances that an implicit belief of it could
be justified. These considerations would,
probably not have arisen so distinctly to
her mind, at this time, had not the terrors
of Valancourt presented to her such obvious
exaggerations of her danger as incited her
to distrust the fallacies of passion. But,
while she endeavoured in the gentlest man-
ner to convince him of his error, she plunged
him into a new one : his voice and counte
nance changed to an expression of dark
despair—" Emily !" said he, " this, this mo-
ment is the bitterest that is yet come to
me. You do not — cannot love me ! — It
would be impossible for you to reason thus
coolly, thus deliberately, if you did. I, /
am torn with anguish at the prospect of our
separation, and of the evils that may await
you in consequence of it j I would encounter
any hazards to prevent it — to save you.
No, Emily ! no ! — you cannot love me !"

"We have now little time to waste in
exclamation or assertion," said Emily, en-
deavouring to conceal her emotion : " if you
are yet to learn how dear you are, and ever

must be, to my heart, no assurances of
mine can give you conviction."

The last words faltered on her lips, and
her tears flowed fast. These words and
tears brought, once more, and with instan-
taneous force, conviction of her love to
Valancourt. He could only exclaim, M Emily !
Emily !" aud weep over the hand he pressed
to his lips ; but she, after some moments,
again roused herself from the indulgence of
sorrow, and said — " I must leave you : it is
late, and my absence from the chateau may
be discovered. Think of me— love me—
when I am far away : the belief of this will
be my comfort !"

" Think of you ! — love you !" exclaimed
Valancourt.

" Try to moderate these transports," said
Emily ; " for my sake, try."

" For your sake !"

" Yes, for my sake," replied Emily, in a
tremulous voice : " I cannot leave you thus !"

" Then do not leave me !" said Valancourt
with quickness. " Why should we part, or
part for longer than till to-morrow?"

" I am, indeed I am, unequal to these
moments," replied Emily ; " you tear my
heart ; but I never can consent to this
hasty, imprudent proposal!"

"If we could command our time, my
Emily, it should not be thus hasty : we must
submit to circumstances."

" We must, indeed ! I have already told
you all my heart. My spirits are gone.
You allowed the force of my objections, till
your tenderness called up vague terrors,
which have given us both unnecessary an-
guish. Spare me ! do not oblige me to
repeat the reasons I have already urged."

" Spare you !" cried Valancourt. " I am
a wretch, a very wretch, that have felt only
for myself ! — I ! who ought to have shown
the fortitude of a man, who ought to have
supported you ; — I ! have increased your
sufferings by the conduct of a cfcild ! For-
give me, Emily ! — think of the distraction
of my mind, now that I am about to part
with all that is clear to me, and forgive me !
When you are gone, I shall recollect with
bitter remorse, what I have made you suffer,
and shall wish in vain that I could see you,
if only for a moment, that I might sooth
your grief."

Tears again interrupted his voice; am*
Emily wept with him. — " I will show myself
more worthy of your love," said Valancourt,
at length — " I will not prolong these mo-
ments.— My Emily ! my own Emily ! never
forget me ! — God knows when we shall meet
again ! I resign you to his care. — O God !
O God ! protect and bless her !"

He pressed her hand to his heart. Emily
sunk almost lifeless on his bosom, and
neither wept nor spoke. Valancourt, now
commanding his own distress, tried to com-

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

fort and re-assure ner : but she appeared
totally unaffected by what he said •, and a
sigh, which she uttered now and then, was
all that proved she had not fainted.

He supported her slowly towards the
chateau, weeping, and speaking to her ; but
she answered only in sighs, till having
reached the gate that terminated the avenue,
she seemed to have recovered her consci
ousness, and, looking round, perceived how
near they were to the chateau. — " We must,
part here," said she, stopping. " Why pro-
long these moments ? Teach me the for-
titude I have forgotten."

Valancourt struggled to assume a com-
posed air. " Farewell, my love !" said he,
in a voice of solemn tenderness — " trust me,
we shall meet again — meet for each other —
meet to part no more !" His voice faltered,
but, recovering it, he proceeded in a firmer
tone. " You know not what I shall suffer
till I hear from you : I shall omit no oppor-
tunity of conveying to you my letters ; yet
I tremble to think how few may occur.
And trust me, love, for your dear sake I
will try to bear this absence with fortitude.
— O, how little I have shown to-night !"

" Farewell !" said Emily, faintly. " When
you are gone, I shall think of many things
J would have said to you." — "And I of
many, many !" said Valancourt. " I never
left you yet, that I did not immediately
remember some question, or some entreaty,
or some circumstance concerning my love,
that I earnestly wished to mention, and felt
wretched because I could not. O Emily !
this countenance, on which I now gaze,
will, in a moment, be gone from my eyes,
and not all the efforts of fancy will be able
to recal it with exactness. O ! what an in-
finite difference between this moment and
the next ! — now, I am in your presence, can
behold you ! then, all will be a dreary blank
—and I shall be a wanderer, exiled from
my only home !"

Valancourt again pressed her to his heart,
and held her there in silence, weeping.
Tears once again calmed her oppressed
mind. They again bade each other farewell,
lingered a moment, and then parted. Valan-
court seemed to force himself from the spot-
he passed hastily up the avenue ; and
Emily, as she moved slowly towards the
chateau, heard his distant steps. She listened
to the sounds, as they sunk fainter and
fainter, till the melancholy stillness of night
alone remained ; and then hurried to her
chamber, to seek repose, which, alas \ was
fled from her wretchedness.

CHAP. XV.

" Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see,

My heart, untravell'd, still shall turn to thee."

GOLDSMITH.

The carriages were at the gates at »n

early hour. The bustle of the domestics*
passing to and fro in the galleries, awaken .
ed Emily from harassing slumbers : her un
quiet mind had, during the night, presented
her with terrific images and obscure circum-
stances, concerning her affection and her
future life. She now endeavoured to chase
away the impressions they had left on her
fancy ; but, from imaginary evils, she
awoke to the consciousness of real ones.
Recollecting that she had parted with Valan-
court, perhaps for ever, her heart sickened
as memory revived. But she tried to dis
miss the dismal forbodings that crowded on
her mind, and to restrain the sorrow which
she could not subdue— efforts which diffused
over the settled melancholy of her counte-
nance an expression of tempered resigna-
tion, as a thin veil, thrown over the features
of beauty, renders them more interesting
by a partial concealment. But Madame
Montoni observed nothing in this counte-
nance except its unusual paleness, which
attracted her censure. She told her niece
that she had been indulging in fanciful sor-
rows, and begged she would have more
regard for decorum, than to let the world
see that she could not renounce an improper
attachment ; at which Emily's pale cheek
became flushed with crimson — but it was
the blush of pride — and she made no answer.
Soon after, Montoni entered the breakfait
room : spoke little, and seemed impatient
to be gone.

The windows of this room opened upon
the garden. As Emily passed them, she
saw the spot where she had parted with
Valancourt on the preceding night : the
remembrance pressed heavily on her heart,
and she turned hastily away from the object
that had awakened it.

The baggage being at length adjusted,
the travellers entered their carriages 5 and
Emily would have left the chateau without
one sigh of regret, had it not been situated
in the neighbourhood of Valancourt' s resi
dence.

From a little eminence she looked back
upon Thoulouse, and the far-seen plains of
Gascony, beyond which the broken sum-
mits of the Pyrenees appeared on the
distant horizon, lighted up by a morning
sun. " Dear pleasant mountains !" said she
to herself, " how long may it be ere I see ye
again, and how much may happen to make
me miserable in the interval ! Oh, could J
now be certain that I should ever return to
ye, and find that Valancourt still lived for
me, I should go in peace ! He will still gaze
on ye — gaze, when I am far away !"

The trees that impended over the high
banks of the road, and formed a line of
perspective with the distant country, now
threatened to exclude the view of tbem -,
but the bluish mountains still appeared be-

80

TJIE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

yond the dark foliage, and Emily continued
to lean from the coach window, till at
length the closing branches shut them from
her sight.

Another object soon caught her attention.
She had scarcely looked at a person who
walked along the bank, with his hat, in
which was a military feather, drawn over
his eyes, before, at the sound of wheels, he
suddenly turned, and she perceived that it
was Valancourt himself, who waved his
hand, sprung into the road, and through
the window of the carriage put a letter into
her hand. He endeavoured to smile through
the despair that overspread his countenance
as she passed on. The remembrance of that
smile seemed impressed on Emily's mind
for ever. She leaned from the window, and
saw him on a knoll of the broken bank,
leaning against the high trees that waved
over him, and pursuing tlie carriage with
his eyes. He waved his hand ; and she
continued to gaze till distance confused his
figure ; and at length another turn of the
road entirely separated him from her sight.

Having stopped to take up Signor Cavi-
gni at a chateau on the road, the travellers,
of whom Emily was disrespectfully seated
with Madame Montoni's woman in a second
carriage, pursued their way over the plains
of Languedoc. The presence of this servant
restrained Emily from reading Valancourt's
letter, for she did not choose to expose the
emotions it might occasion to the observation
of any person : yet such was her wish to
read this his last communication, that her
trembling hand was every moment on the
point of breaking the seal.

At length they reached the village, where
they staid only to change horses, without
alighting ; and it was not till they stopped
to dine, that Emily had an opportunity of
reading the letter. Though she had never
doubted the sincerity of Valancourt's affec-
tion, the fresh assurances she now received
of it revived her spirits : she wept over his
letter in tenderness, laid it by to be referred
to when they should be particularly depres-
sed, and then thought of him with much
less anguish than she had done since they
parted. Among some other requests which
were interesting to her, because expressive
of his tenderness, and because a compliance
with them seemed to annihilate for a while
the pain of absence, he entreated she would
always think of him at sun-set. " You will
then meet me in thought," said he : " I
shall constantly watch the sun-set; and I
shall be happy in the belief, that your eyes
are fixed upon the same object with mine,
and tfcat our minds, are conversing. You
know not, Emily, the comfort I promise
myself from these moments; but I trust
you Mill experience it."

It » unnecessary to say with what emo-

tion Emily, on thit evening, watched thr
declining sun, over a long extent of plains,
on which she saw it set without interrup-
tion, and sink towards the province which
Valancourt inhabited. After this hour, her
mind became far more tranquil and resigned
than it had been since the marriage of Mon
toni and her aunt.

During several days the travellers jour-
neyed over the plains of Languedoc ; and
then entering Dauphiny, and winding for
some time among the mountains of that
romantic province, they quitted their carri-
ages, and began to ascend the Alps. And
here such scenes of sublimity opened upon
them, as no colours of language must dare
to paint ! Emily's mind was even so much
engaged with new and wonderful images,
that they sometimes banished the idea of
Valancourt, though they more frequently
revived it. These brought to her recollec-
tion the prospects among the Pyrenees,
which they had admired together, and had
believed nothing could excel in grandeur.
How often did she wish to express to him the
new emotions which this astonishing scenery
awakened, and that he could partake of
them ! Sometimes, too, she endeavoured to
anticipate his remarks, and almost imagined
him present. She seemed to have arisen
into another world, and to have left every
trifling thought, every tritiing sentiment,
in that below : those only of grandeur and
sublimity now dilated her mind, and ele-
vated the affections of her heart.

With what emotions of sublimity, soften-
ed by tenderness, did she meet Valancourt
in thought, at the customary hour of sun-
set, when, wandering among the Alps, she
watched the glorious orb sink amid their
summits, his last tints die away on their
snowy points, and a solemn obscurity steal
over the scene ! And when the last gleam
had faded, she turned her eyes from the
west with somewhat of the melancholy
regret that is experienced after the depar-
ture of a beloved friend ; while these lonely
feelings were heightened by the spreading
gloom, and by the low sounds, heard only
when darkness confines attention, which
make the general stillness more impressive-
leaves shook by the air, the last of the breeze
that lingers after sun-set, or the murmur of
distant streams.

During the first days of this journey
among the Alps, the scenery exhibited a
wonderful mixture of solitude and inhabit
ation, of cultivation and barrenness. On
the edge of tremendous precipices, and
within the hollow of the cliffs, below which
the clouds often floated, were seen villages,
spires, and convent towers ; while green
pastures and vineyards spread their hues
at the feet of perpendicular rocks of marble,
or of granite, whose points tufted with

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

81

Alpine shrubs, or exhibiting only massy
crags, rose above each other, till they ter-
minated in the snow-topt mountains, whence
the torrent fell that thundered along the
valley.

The snow was not yet melted on the
summit of Mount Cenis, over which the
travellers passed ; but Emily, as she looked
upon its clear lake and extended plain, sur-
rounded by broken cliffs, saw, in imagi-
nation, the verdant beauty it would exhibit
when the snows should be gone, and the
shepherds, leading up the Midsummer flocks
from Piedmont, to pasture on its flowery
summit, should add Arcadian figures to
Ai cadian landscape.

As she descended on the Italian side, the
precipices became still more tremendous,
and the prospects still more wild and majes-
tic ; over which the shifting lights threw all
the pomp of colouring. Emily delighted to
observe the snowy tops of the mountains
under the passing influence of the day —
blushing with morning, glowing with the
brightness of noon, or just tinted with the
purple evening. The haunt of man could
now only be discovered by the simple hut
of the shepherd and the hunter, or by the
rough pine bridge thrown across the torrent,
to assist the latter in his chase of the cha-
mois over crags, where, but for this vestige
of man, it would have been believed only
the chamois or the wolf dared to venture.
As Emily gazed upon one of these perilous
bridges, with the cataract foaming beneath
it, some images came to her mind, which
she afterwards combined in the following

STORIED SONNET.
The weary traveller, who, all night long-,
Has climb'd among the Alps' tremendous steeps.
Skirting the pathless precipice, where throng
Wild forms of danger ; as he onward creeps,
If, chance, his anxious eye at distance sees
The mountain shepherd's solitary home,
Peeping from forth the moon-ill umin'd trees,
What sudden transports to his bosom come !
But, if between some hideous chasm yawn,
Where the cleft pine a doubtful bridge displays,
In dreadful silence, on the brink, forlorn
He stands, and views, in the faint rays.
Far, far below the torrent's rising surge,
And listens to the wild impetuous roar
Still eyes the depth, still shudders on the verge,
Fears to return, nor dares to venture o'er.
Desperate, at length the tottering plank he tries,
His weak steps slide, he shrieks, he sinks—he dies.

Emily, often as she travelled among the
clouds, watched in silent awe their billowy
surges rolling below: sometimes, wholly
closing upon the scene, they appeared like
f world of chaos ; and, at others spreading
thinly, they opened and admitted partial
catches of the landscape — the torrent, whose
astounding roar had never failed, tumbling
down the rocky chasm, huge cliffs white
with snow, on the dark summits of the pine
forests that stretched mid-way down the
mountains. But who mav describe her rap-
G

ture, when* having passed through a sea of
vapour, she caught a first view of Italy;
when, from the ridge of one of those tre-
mendous precipices that hang upon Mount
Cenis and guard the entrance of that en-
chanting country, she looked down through
the lower clouds, and, as they floated away,
saw the grassy vales of Piedmont at her feet,
and, beyond, the plains of Lombardy ex-
tending to the furthest distance, at which
appeared, on the faint horizon, the doubtful
towers of Turin ?

The solitary grandeur of the objects that
immediately surrounded her— the mountain
region towering above ; the deep precipices
that fell beneath ; the waving blackness of
the forests of pine and oak, which skirted
their feet, or hung within their recesses ; the
headlong torrents that, dashing among their
cliffs, sometimes appeared like a cloud of
mist, at others like a sheet of ice — these
were features which received a higher cha-
racter of sublimity from the reposing beauty
of the Italian landscape below, stretching to
the wide horizon, where the same melting
blue tint seemed to unite earth and sky.

Madame Montoni only shuddered as she
looked down precipices near whose edge the
chairmen trotted lightly and swiftly, almost,
as the chamois bounded ; and from which
Emily, too, recoiled ; but with her fears
were mingled such various emotions of de*
light, such admiration, astonishment, and
awe, as she had never experienced before.

Meanwhile, the carriers, having come to
a landing-place, stopped to rest ; and the
travellers being seated on the point of a
cliff, Montoni and Cavigni renewed a dis-
pute concerning Hannibal's passage over
the Alps — Montoni contending that he en-
tered Italy by way of Mount Cenis ; and
Cavigni, that he passed over Mount St. Ber-
nard. The subject brought to Emily's
imagination the disasters he had suffered in
this bold and perilous adventure. She saw
his vast armies winding among the defiles,
and over the tremendous cliffs of the moun
tains, which at night were lighted up by his
fires, or by the torches which he caused to
be carried when he pursued his indefatigable
march. In the eye of fancy, she perceived
the gleam of arms through the duskiness of
night, the glitter of spears and helmets, and
the banners floating dimly on the twilight ;
while now and then the blast of a distant
trumpet echoed along the defile, and the
signal was answered by a momentary clash
of arms. She looked with horror upon the
mountaineers, perched on the higher cliffs
assailing the troops below with broken
fragments of the mountain ; on soldiers and
elephants tumbling headlong down the lower
precipices ; and, as she listened to the re-
bounding rocks that followed their fall, the
terrors of fancy yielded to those of reality,

82

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

and she shuddered to behold herself on the
dizzy height whence she had pictured the
descent of others.

Madame Montoni, meantime, as she looked
upon Italy, was contemplating, in imagi-
nation, the splendour of palaces and the
grandeur of castles, such as she believed she
was going to be mistress of at Venice and in
the Apennine ; and she became, hi idea,
little less than a princess. Being no longer
under the alarms which had deterred her from
giving entertainments to the beauties of
Thoulouse, whom Montoni had mentioned
with more eclat to his own vanity than credit
to their discretion or regard to truth, she
determined to give concerts, though she had
neither ear nor taste for music; conver-
mzioniy though she had no talents for con-
versation ; and to outvie, if possible, in the
gaieties of her parties and the magnificence
ri her liveries, all the noblesse of Venice.
*1 his blissful reverie was somewhat obscured,
when she recollected the signor, her husband,
who, though he was not averse to the profit
which sometimes results from such parties,
had always shown a contempt of the frivo-
lous parade that sometimes attends them 5
till she considered that his pride might be
gratified by displaying among his own
friends, in his native country, the wealth
which he had neglected in France ; and she
courted again the splendid illusions that
had charmed her before.

The travellers, as they descended, gradu-
ally exchanged the region of winter for the
genial warmth and beauty of spring.
The sky began to assume that serene and
beautiful tint peculiar to the climate of
Italy; patches of young verdure, fragrant
shrubs and flowers, looked gaily among the
rocks, often fringing their rugged brows, or
hanging in tufts from their broken sides ;
and the buds of the oak and mountain-ash
were expanding into foliage. Descending
lower, the orange and the myrtle, every now
and then, appeared in some sunny nook,
with their yellow blossoms peeping from
among the dark green of their leaves, and
mingling with the scarlet flowers of the
pomegranate and the paler ones of the
arbutus, that ran mantling to the crags
above ; while, lower still, spread the pastures
of Piedmont, where early flocks were crop-
ping the luxuriant herbage of spring.

The river Doria, which, rising on the
summit of Mount Cenis, had dashed for
many leagues over the precipices that bor-
dered the road, now began to assume a less
impetuous though scarcely less romantic
character, as it approached the green vallies
of Piedmont, into which the travellers de-
scended with the evening sun ; and Emily
found herself once more amid the tranquil
beauty of pastoral scenery; among flocks

and herds, and slopes tufted with woods of
lively verdure and with beautiful shrubs,
such as she had often seen waving luxuriantly
over the Alps above. The verdure of the
pasturage, now varied with the hues of early
flowers, among which were yellow ranun-
culeses and pansey violets of delicious
fragrance, she had never seen excelled. —
Emily almost wished to become a peasant
of Piedmont, to iuhabit one of the pleasant
embowered cottages which she saw peeping
beneath the cliffs, and to pass her careless
hours among these romantic landscapes.
To the hours, the months, she was to pass
under the dominion of Montoni, she looked
with apprehension ; while those which were
departed she remembered with regret and
sorrow.

In the present scenes her fancy often gave
her the figure of Valancourt, whom she saw
on a point of the cliffs gazing with awe and
admiration at Ahe imagery around him ; or
wandering pensively along the vale below,
frequently pausing to look back upon the
scenery ; and then, his countenance glowing
with the poet's fire, pursuing his way to
some overhanging height. When she again
considered the time and the distance that
were to separate them, that every step she
now took lengthened this distance, her heart
sunk, and the surrounding landscape charmed
her no more.

The travellers, passing Novalesa, reached,
after the evening had closed, the small and
ancient town of Susa, which had formerly
guarded this pass of the Alps into Piedmont.
The heights which command it, had, since
the invention of artillery, rendered its forti-
fications useless ; but these romantic heights,
seen by moon-light, with the town below,
surrounded by its walls and watch-towers,
and partially illuminated, exhibited an inte-
resting picture to Emily. Here they rested
for the night, at an inn which had little
accomodation to boast of; but the travellers
brought with them the hunger that gives
delicious flavour to the coarsest viands, and
the weariness that ensures repose ; and here
Emily first caught a strain of Italian music
on Italian ground. As she sat after supper,
at a little window that opened upon the
country, observing an effect of the moon-
light on the broken surface of the mountains,
and remembering that on such a night as
this she once had sat with her father and
Valancourt resting upon a cliff of the Py-
renees, she heard from below the long-drawn
notes of a violin, of such tone and delicacy
of expression as harmonised exactly with the
tender emotions she was indulging, and both
charmed and surprised her. Cavigni, who
approached the window, smiled at her sur-
prise. " This is nothing extraordinary ,H
said he ; " you will hear the same, perhaps

HIE MYSTERIES OF. UDOLPHO.

8fr

at every inn m our way. It is one of our
landlord's family who plays, I doubt not."
Emily, as she listened, thought he could be
scarcely less than a professor of music whom
she heard; and the sweet and plaintive
strains soon lulled her into a reverie ; from
which she was very unwillingly roused by
the raillery of Cavigni, and by the voice of
Montoni, who gave orders to a servant to
have the carriages ready at an early hour on
the following morning, and added, that he
meant to dine at Turin.

Madame Montoni was exceedingly re-
joiced to be once more on level ground ;
and, after giving a long detail of the various
terrors she had suffered, which she forgot
that she was describing to the companions
of her dangers, she added a hope, that she
should soon be beyond the view of these
honid mountains, " which all the world,"
said she, " should not tempt me to cross
again." Complaining of fatigue, she soon
retired to rest, and Emily withdrew to her
own room; when she understood from
Annette, her aunt's woman, that Cavigni
was nearly right in his conjecture concerning
the musician who had awakened the violin
with so much taste : for that he was the son
of a peasant inhabiting the neighbouring
valley. " He is going to the Carnival at
Venice," added Annette ; " for they say he
has a fine hand at playing, and will get a
world of money, and the Carnival is just
going to begin : but, for my p*art, I should
like to live among these pleasant woods and
hills, better than in a town ; and they say,
ma'amselle, we shall see no woods or hills, or
fields, at Venice, for that it is built in the
very middle of the sea."

Emily agreed with the talkative Annette,
that this young man was making a change
for the worse ; and could not forbear silently
lamenting, that he should be drawn from
the innocence and beauty of these scenes, to
the corrupt ones of that voluptuous city.

When she was alone, unable to sleep, the
landscapes of her native home with Valan-
court, and the circumstances of her depar-
ture, haunted her fancy : she drew pictures
of social happiness amidst the grand sim-
plicity of nature, such as she feared she had
bade farewell to for ever ; and then the idea
of this young Piedmontese, thus ignoranly
sporting with his happiness, returned to b :r
thoughts, and, glad to escape awhile from
the pressure of nearer interest, she indulged
ner fancy in composing the following lines :
THE PIEDMONTESE.

Ah, merry swain ! who laugh'd along the vales,

And with your gay pipe made the mountains ring.
Why leave your cot, your woods, and thymy gsJes,
And friends belov'd, for aught that wealth can

bring?
He goes to wake o'er moon-light seas the strir g -

Venetian gold his untaught fancy hails !
Yet oft of home his simple carols sing,
And his steps pause, as the last Alp he scales.

Once more he turns to view Wis native scene —

Far, far below, as roll the clouds away,
He spies his cabin 'mid the pine-tops green,
The well-known woods, clear brook, and pastures

£ay;

And thinks of friends and parents left behind,
Of sylvan revels, dance, and festive song ;
And hears the. faint reed swelling in the wind;

And his sad sighs the distant notes prolong !
Thus went the swain, till mountain shadows fell,

And dimm'd the landscape to his aching sight ,
And must he leave the vales he loves so well ?

Can foreign wealth, and shows, his heart delight *
No, happy vales ! your wild rocks still shall hear

His pipe, light sounding on the morning breez« ,
Still shall he lead the flocks to streamlet clear,
* And watch at eve beneath the western trees.
Away, Venetian gold — your charm is o'er !

And now his swift step seeks the lowland bow'rs,
Where, through the leaves, his cottage light once
more

Guides him to happy friends, and jocund hours,
Ah, merry swain ! that laugh along trie vales,

And with your gay pipe make the mountains ring,
Your cot, your woods, your thymy-scented gales,

And friends belov'd, more joy than wealth, can
bring !

CHAP. XVI.

TITANl. " If you will patiently dance in oui
round,
And see our moon-light revels, go with us."
MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM.

Early on the following morning, the tra-
yellers set out for Turin. The luxuriant
plain, that extends from the feet of the Alps
to that magnificent city, was not then, as
now, shaded by an avenue of trees nine miles
in length ; but plantations of olives, mul-
berry and palms, festooned with vines, min
gled with the pastoral scenery through
which the rapid Po, after its descent from
the mountains, wandered to meet the hum-
ble Doria at Turin. As they advanced to-
wards the city, the Alps, seen at some dis-
tance, began to appear in all their awful
sublimity ; chain rising over chain in long
succession, their higher points darkened by
the hovering clouds, sometimes hid, and at
others seen shooting up far above them ;
while their lower steeps, broken into fantas-
tic forms, were touched with blue and pur-
plish tints, which, as they changed in light
and shade, seemed to open new scenes to the
eye. To the east stretched the plains, of
Lombardy, with the towers of Turin rising
at a distance ; and beyond the Apennines,
bounding the horizon.

The general magnificence of that city,
with its vistas of churches and palaces,
branching from the grand square, each
opening to a landscape of the distant Alps
or Apennines, was not only such as Emily
had never seen in France, but such as she
had never imagined.

Montoni, who had been often at Turin,
and cared little about views of any kind, did
not comply with his wife's request, that they
might survey some of the palaces ; but stay-
ing only till the necessary refreshments
could be obtained, they set forward for Ve-
nice with all possible rapidity Montoni's

81

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

manner, during this journey, was grave and
even haughty ♦, and towards Madame Mon-
toni he was more especially reserved ; but it
was not the reserve of respect so much as of
pride and discontent. Of Emily he took
little notice. With Cavigni his conversa-
tions were commonly on political or military
topics, such as the convulsed state of their
country rendered at this time particularly
interesting. Emily observed that, at the
mention of any daring exploit, Montoni*s
eyes lost their sullenness, and seemed instan-
taneously to gleam with fire ; yet they still
retained somewhat of a lurking cunning,
and she sometimes thought that their fire
partook more of the glare of malice than
the brightness of valour, though the latter
would well have harmonized with the high
chivalric air of his figure, in which Cavigni,
with all his gay and gallant manners, was
his inferior.

On entering the Milanese, the gentlemen
exchanged their French hats for the Italian
cap of scarlet cloth, embroidered ; and
Emily was somewhat surprised to observe,
that Montoni added to his the militaiy
plume, while Cavigni retained only the fea-
ther, which was usually worn with such
caps : but she at length concluded that
Montoni assumed this ensign of a soldier for
convenience, as a means of passing with
more safety through a country overrun with
parties of the military.

Over the beautiful plains of this country
the devastations of war were frequently visi-
ble. Where the lands had not been suffered
to lie uncultivated, they were often tracked
by the steps of the spoiler ; the vines were
torn down from the branches that had sup-
ported them, the olives trampled upon the
ground, and even the groves of mulberry-
trees had been hewn by the enemy to light
fires that destroyed the hamlets and villages
of their owners. Emily turned her eyes
with a sigh from these painful vestiges of
contention, to the Alps of the Grison, that
overlooked them to the north, whose awful
solitudes seemed to offer to persecuted man
a secure asylum.

The travellers frequently distinguished
troops of soldiers moving at a distance ; and
they experienced, at the little inns on the
road, the scarcity of provision and other in-
conveniences, which are a part of the conse-
quence of intestine war ; but they had never
reason to be much alarmed for their imme-
diate safety, and they passed on to Milan
with little interruption of any kind, where
they stayed not to survey the grandeur of
the city, or even to view its vast cathedral,
which was then building. t

Beyond Milan the country wore the as-
pect of a ruder devastation ; and though
every thing seemed now quiet, the repose
was like that of death, spread over features,

which retain the impression of the last con
vulsions.

It was not till they had passed the eastern
limits of the Milanese, that the travellers
saw any /troops since they left Milan, when,
as the evening was drawing to a close, they
descried what appeared to be an army wind
ing onward along the distant plains, whose
spears and other arms caught the last rays
of the sun. As the column advanced through
a part of the road, contracted between two
hillocks, some of the commanders on horse-
back were distinguished on a small emi-
nence, pointing and making signals for the
march; while several of the officers were
riding along the line directing its progress,
according to the signs communicated by
those above j and others, separating from
the vanguard, which had emerged from the
pass, were riding carelessly along the plains,
at some distance to the right of the army.

As they drew nearer, Montoni, distin-
guishing the feathers that waved in their
caps, and the banners and liveries of the
bands that followed them, thought he knew
this to be the small army commanded by
the famous Captain Utaldo, with whom, as
well as with some of the other chiefs, he was
personally acquainted. He, therefore, gave
orders that the carriages should draw up by
the side of the road, to await their arrival,
and give them the pass. A faint strain of
martial music now stole by, and, gradually
strengthening as the troops approached,
Emily distinguished the drums and trum-
pets with the clash of cymbals and of arms,
that were struck by a small party in time to
the march.

Montoni, being now certain that the^e
were the bands of the victorious Utaldo,
leaned from the carriage window, and hailed
their general by waving his cap in the air ;
which compliment the chief returned by
raising his spear, and then letting it down
again suddenly, while some of his officers,
who were riding at a distance from the
troops, came up to the carriage, and saluted
Montoni as an old acquaintance. The cap-
tain himself soon after arriving, his bands
halted while he conversed with Montoni,
whom he appeared much rejoiced to see ;
and from what he said, Emily understood
that this was a victorious army, returning
into their own principality ; while the nu-
merous-waggons, that accompanied them,
contained the rich spoils of the enemy, their
own wounded soldiers, and the prisoners
they had taken in battle, who were to be
ransomed when the peace, then negotiating
between the neighbouring states, should be
ratified. The chiefs on the following day
were to separate, and each, taking his share
of the spoil, was to return with his own
band to his castle. This was therefore to
be an evening of uncommon and general fes-

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO

»,»

tit ity, in commemoration of the victory they
had accomplished together, and of the fare-
well which the commanders were about to
take of each other.

Emily, as these officers conversed with
Montoni, observed with admiration, tinctur-
ed with awe, their high martial air, mingled
with the haughtiness of the noblesse of those
days, and heightened by the gallantry of
their dress, by the plumes towering on their
caps, the armorial coat, Persian sash, and
ancient Spanish cloak. Utaldo, telling
Montoni that his army were going to en-
camp for the night near a village at only
a few miles distance, invited him to turn
back and partake of their festivity, assuring
the ladies also, that they should be plea-
santly accommodated ; but Montoni ex
cused himself, adding, that it was his design
to reach Verona that evening ; and, after
some conversation concerning the state of
the country towards that city, tliey parted.

The travellers proceeded without any in-
terruption ; but it was some hours after
sunset before they arrived at Verona, whose
beautiful environs were therefore not seen
by Emily till the following morning ; when,
leaving that pleasant town at an early hour,
they set off for Padua, where they embarked
on the Brenta for Venice. Here the scene
was entirely changed ; no vestiges of war,
such as had deformed the plains of the Mi-
lanese, appeared ; on the contrary, all was
peace and elegance. The verdant banks of
the Brenta exhibited a continued landscape
of beauty, gaiety, and splendour. Emily
gazed with admiration on the villas of the,
Venetian noblesse, with their cool porticos I
and colonnades, overhung with poplars and j
cypresses of majestic height and lively ver- 1
dure ; on their rich orangeries whose bios-
soms perfumed the air, and on the luxuriant;
willows, that dipped their light leaves in the'
wave, and sheltered from the sun the gay '
parties whose music came at intervals on \
the breeze. The Carnival did, indeed, ap-
pear to extend from Venice along the whole
line of these enchanting shores ; the river
was gay with boats passing to that city, ex- j
ni biting the fantastic diversity of a masque- I
rade in the dresses of the people within
them ; and, towards evening, groups of
dancers frequently were seen beneath the j
trees.

Cavigni, meanwhile, informed her of the
names of the noblemen to whom the several
rillas they passed belonged, adding light
sketches of their characters, such as served
to amuse rather than to inform, exhibiting
his own wit instead of the delineation of
truth. Emily was sometimes diverted by
his conversation ; but his gaiety did not en-
tertain Madame Montoni, as it had formerly
doue ; she was frequently grave, and Mon-
toni retained his usual reserve.

Nothing could exceed Emily's admiratioii
on her first view of Venice, with its islets,
palaces, and towers rising out of the sea.
whose clear surface reflected the tremulou
picture in all its colours. The sun, sinking
in the west, tinted the waves and the lotty
mountains of Friuli, which skirt the northern
shores of the Adriatic with a saffron glow,
while on the marble porticos and colonnades
of St. Mark were thrown the rich lights and
shades of evening. As they glided on, the
grander features of this city appeared more
distinctly : its terraces, crowned with airy
yet majestic fabrics, touched, as they now
were, with the splendour of the setting sun,
appeared as if they had been called up from
the ocean by the wand of an enchanter, ra-
ther than reared by mortal hands.

The sun, soon after, sinking to the lower
world, the shadow of the earth stole gradu-
ally over the waves, and then up the tower-
ing sides of the mountains of Friuli, till it
extinguished even the last upward beam
that lingered on their summits, and the im>-
lancholy purple of evening1 drew over them,
like a thin veil. How deep, how beautiful
was the tranquillity that wrapped the scene !
All nature seemed to repose ; the finest emo-
tions of the soul were alone awake. Emily's
eyes filled with tears of admiration and sub-
lime devotion, as she raised them over the
sleeping world to the vast heavens, and
heard the notes of solemn music, that stole
over the waters at a distance. She listened
in still rapture, and no person of the party
broke the charm by an inquiry. The sounds
seemed to grow on the air 5 for so smoothly
did the barge glide, along, that its motion
was ^iot perceivable, and the fairy city ap-
peared approaching to welcome the stran-
gers. They now distinguished a female voice,
accompanied by a few instruments, singing
a soft and mournful air; and its fineexpres
sion, as sometimes it seemed pleading with
the impassioned tenderness of love, and then
languishing into the cerlciic-e of hopeless
grief, declared that it flowf d from no feigned
sensibility. Ah ! thought Emily, as she
sighed and remembered Valancourt, those
strains come from the heart !

She looked round with anxious inquiry ;
the deep twilight, that had fallen over the
scene, admitted only imperfect images to
the eye, but, at some distance on the sea,
she thought she perceived a gondola : a
chorus of voices and images now swelled on
the air— so sweet, so solemn ' it seemed like
the hymn of angels descending through the
silence of night ! Now it died away, and
fancy almost beheld the holy choir re-ascend
ing towards heaven 5 then again it swelled
with the breeze, trembled awhile, and again
died into silence. It brought to Emily's re-
collection some lines of her late father, and
she repeated in a low voice,

-Oft I hear,
Upon the silence of the midnight air,
Celestial voices swell in holy chorus,
That bears the soul to heaven !

The deep stillness, that succeeded, was a*
expressive as the strain that had just ceased.
It was uninterrupted for several minutes,
till a general sigh seemed to release the com-
pany from their enchantment. Emily, how-
ever, long indulged the pleasing sadness that
had stollen upon her spirits ; hut the gay
and busy scene that appeared, as the*barge
approached St. Mark's Palace, at length
roused her attention. The rising moon,
which threw a shadowy light upon the ter-
races, and illumined the porticos and mag-
nificent arcades that crowned them, disco-
vered the various company, whose light
steps, soft guitars, and softer voices, echoed
through the colonnade.

The music they heard before now passed
Montoni's barge, in one of the gondolas, of
which several were seen skimming along the
moon-light sea, full of gay parties, catching
the cool breeze. Most of these had music,
made sweeter by the waves over which it
floated, and by the measured sound of oars,
as they dashed the sparkling tide. Emily
gazed, and listened, and thought herself in a
fairy scene: even Madame Montoni was
pleased ; Montoni congratulated himself on
his return to Venice, which he called the
first city in the world, and Cavigni was more
gay and animated than ever.

;rhe barge passed on to the grand canal,
where Montoni's mansion was situated.
And here, other forms of beauty srd of

grandeur, such as her imagination had nc
ver painted, were unfolded to Emily in the
palaces of Sansovino and Palladio, as she
glided along the waves. The air bore no
sounds, but those of sweetness, echoing along
each margin of the canal, and from gondolas
on its surface, while groups of masks were
seen dancing on the moon-light terraces,
and seemed almost to realize the romance
of fairy- land.

The barge stopped before the portico of
a large house, from whence a servant of
Montoni crossed the terrace, and immediately
the party disembaked. From the portico
they passed a noble hall to a stair-case of
markle, which led to a saloon, fitted up in a
style of magnificence that surprised Emily.
The walls and ceiling were adorned with
historical and allegorical paintings, in fres-
co ; silver tripods, depending from chains
of the same metal, illumined the apartment,
the floor of which was covered with Indian
mats painted in a variety of colours and de-
vices; the couches and drapery of the lat»
tices swere of pale green silk, embroidered
and fringed with green and gold. Balcony
lattices opened upon the grand canal,
whence rose a confusion of voices and of
musical instruments, and the breeze that
gave freshness to the apartment. Emily,
considering the gloomy temper of Montoni,
looked upon the splendid furniture of his
house with surprise, and remembered the re-
port of his being a man of broken fortune,
with astonishment. "Ah !"said she to herself,
u if Valaiicourt could but see this mansion,
what peace would it give him ! He would

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

87

then be convinced that the report was
groundless."

Madame Montoni seemed to assume the
airs of a princess ; but Montoni was restless
and discontented, and did not even observe
the civility of bidding her welcome to her
home.

Soon after his arrival, he ordered his gon-
dola, and, with Cavigni, went out to mingle
in the scenes of the evening. Madame then
became serious and thoughtful. Emily,
who was charmed with every thing she saw,
endeavoured to enliven her ; but reflection
had not, with Madame Montoni, subdued
caprice and ill humour, and her answers dis-
covered so much of both, that Emily gave
up the attempt of diverting her, and with-
drew to a lattice, to amuse herself with the
scene without, so new and so enchanting.

The first object that attracted her notice,
was a group of dancers on the terrace be-
low, led by a guitar, and some other instru-
ments. The girl who struck the guitar, and
another who flourished a tamborine,, pass-
ed on in a dancing step, and with a light
grace and gaiety of heart, that would have
subdued the goddess of spleen in her worst
humour. After these came a group ot fan-
tastic figures, some dressed as gondolieri,
others as minstrels, while others seemed to
defy all description. They sung in parts,
their voices accompanied by a few soft in-
struments. At a little distance from the
portico they stopped,, and Emily distin-
guished the verses of Ariosto. They sung
of the wars of the Moors against Charle-
magne, and then of the woes of Orlando :
afterwards the measure changed, and the
melancholy sweetness of Petrarch succeeded.
The magic of his grief was assisted by all
that Italian music and Italian expression,
heightened by the enchantments of Venetian
moon-light, could give.

Emily, as she listened, caught the pensive
enthusiasm ; her tears flowed silently, while
her fancy bore her far away to France, and
to Valancourt. Each succeeding sonnet,
more full of charming sadness than the last,,
seemed to bind the spell of melancholy:
with extreme regret she saw the musicians
move on, and her attention followed the
strain till the last faint warble died in
air. She then remained sunk in that pen-
sive tranquillity which soft music leaves on
the mind — a state like that produced by the
view of a beautiful landscape by moon-light,
or by the recollection of scenes marked with
the tenderness of friends lost for ever, and
with sorrows, which time has mellowed into
mild regret. Such scenes are indeed, to the
mind, like " those faint traces which the me-
mory bears of music that is past."

Other sounds soon awakened her atten-
tion : it was the solemn harmony of horns,
that swelled from a distance ; and, observ-

ing the gondolas arrange themselves along
the margin of the terraces, she threw on he'
veil, and, stepping into the balcony, discern
ed in the distant perspective of the canal,
something like a procession, floating on the
light surface of the water : as it approached,
the horns and other instruments mingled
sweetly, and soon after the fabled deities of
the city seemed to have arisen from the
ocean : for Neptune, with Venice personified
as his queen, came on the undulating waves,
surrounded by tritons and sea-nymphs.
The fantastic splendour of this spectacle,
together with the grandeur of the surround-
ing palaces, appeared like the vision of a
poet suddenly embodied ; and the fanciful
images, which it awakened in Emily's mind,
lingered there long after the procession had
passed away. She indulged herself in ima-
gining what might be the manners and de-
lights of a sea-nymph, till she almost wished
to throw off* the habit of mortality, and
plunge into the green wave to participate
them. ,^

"How delightful," said she, "to live
amidst the coral bowers and crystal caverns
of the ocean, with my sister nymphs, and
listen to the sounding waters above, and to
the soft shells of the tritons ! and then, af-
ter sun-set, to skim on the surface of the
waves, round wild rocks, and along seques-
tered shores, where, perhaps, some pensive
wanderer comes to weep ! Then would I
sooth his sorrows with my sweet music, and
offer him from a shell some of the delicious
fruit that hangs round Neptune's palace."

She was recalled from her reverie to a
mere mortal supper, and could not forbear
smiling at the fancies she had been indulg
ing, and at her conviction of the serious dis-
pleasure, which Madame Montoni would
have expressed, could she have been made
acquainted with them.

After supper, her aunt sat late, but Mon
toni did not return, and she at length retired
to rest. If Emily had admired the magni
ficence of the saloon, she was not less sur-
prised, on observing the half-furnished and
forlorn appearance of the apartments she
passed in the way to her chamber, whither
she went through long suits of noble rooms,
that seemed, from their desolate aspect, to
have been unoccupied for many years. On
the walls of some were the faded remains
of tapestry ; from others, painted in fresco,
the damps had almost withdrawn both
colours and design. At length she reached
her own chamber, spacious, desolate, and
lofty, like the rest, with high lattices that
opened towards the Adriatic. It brought
gloomy images to her mind, but the view of
the Adriatic soon gave her others more
airy, among which was that of the sea-
nymph, whose delights she had before
amused herself with picturing j and, anxious

88

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOEFHO.

to escape from serious reflections, she now
endeavoured to throw her fanciful ideas into
a train, and concluded the hour with com-
posing the following lines :

THE SEA NYMPH.

Down, down a thousand fathoms deep,

Among the sounding seas I go;
Play round the foot of ev'ry steep,

Whose cliffs above the ocean grow.

There, within their secret caves,

I hear the mighty livers roar ;
And guide their streams through Neptune s waves,

To bless the green earth's inmost shore :

And bid the freshen' d warers glide,

For fern-crown' d nymphs of lake or brook,
Through winding woods and pastures wide,

And many a wild romantic nook.
For this the nymphs, at fall of eve,

Oft dance upon the flow'ry banks,
And sing my name, and garlands weave.

To bear beneath the wave their thanks.

In coral bow'rs I love to lie,

And hear the surges roll above,
And through the waters view on high

The proud ships sail, and gay clouds move.

And oft, at midnight's stillest hour,

When summer seas the vessel lave,
I love to prove my charm ful pow'r,

While floating on the moon-light wave.
And when deep sleep the crew has bound,

And 'the sad lover musing leans
O'er the ship's side, I breathe around

Such strains as speak no mortal means !

O'er the dim waves his searching eye
Sees but the vessel's lengthened shade ;

Above, the moon and azure sky ;
Entranc'd he hears, and half afraid !

Sometimes, a single note I swell,

That, softly sweet, at distance dies!
Then wake the magic of my shell,

And choral voices round me rise !
The trembling youth, charm' d by my strain,

Calls up the crew, who, silent, bend
O'er the high deck, but list in vain i

My song is hush'd, my wonders end!

Within the mountain's woody bay,
Where the tall bark at anchor rides,

At twilight hour, with tritons gay,
I dance upon the lapsing tides:

And with my sister nymphs J sport,
Till the broad sun looks o'er the floods,

Then, swift we seek our crystal court,
Deep in the wave, *mid Neptune's woods.

In cool arcades and grassy halls,
We pass the sultry hours of noon,

Beyond wherever sun-beam falls,
Weaving sea-flowers in gay festoon.

The while we chant our ditties sweet,
To some soft shell that warbles near;

Join'd by the murmuring currents fleet,
That glide along our halls so clear.

There the pale pearl and sapphire blue,
And ruby red, and em'rald green,

Dart from the domes a changing hue,
And sparry columns deck the sceue.

When the dark storm scowls o'er the deep,
And long;, long peals of thunder sound,

On some high cliff my watch I keep,
O'er all the restless seas around :

Till on the ridgy wave afar

Comes the lone vessel, labouring slow,
Spreading the white foam in the air,

With sail and top-mast bending low

Then plunge I 'mid the ocean's rear',
My way by shiv'ring lightnings shown.

To guide the bark to peaceful shore,
And hush the sailor's fearful groan.

And if too late I reach its side,
To save it from the 'whelming surge,

I call my dolphins o'er the tide,
To bear the crew where isles emerge.

Their mournful spirits soon I cheer,
While round the desert coast I go,

With warbled songs they faintly hear,
Oft as the stormy gust sinks* low.

My music leads to lofty groves,

That wild upon the sea-bank wave;

Where sweet fruits bloom, and fresh spring rows,
And closing boughs the tempest brave.

Then, from the air spirits obey,
My potent voice they love so well,

And on the clouds paint visions gay,
While strains more sweet at distance sweil.

And thus the lonely hours I cheat,
Soothing the shipwreck'd sailor's heart,

Till from the waves the storms retreat,
And o'er the east the day-beams dart.

Neptune for this oft binds me fast
To rocks below, with coral chain,

Till all the tempest's overpast,
And drowning seamen cry in vain.

Whoe'er ye are that love my lay,
Come, when red sun-set tints the wave,

To the still sands, where fairies play ;
There, in cool seas, I love to lave.

CHAP. XVII.

" He is a great observer, and he looks

Quite through the deeds of men : he loves no piays,

■ ■■ • he hears no music :

Seldom he smiles ; and smiles in such a sort,
As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit
That could be mov'd to smile at any thing.
Such men as he be never at heart's ease,
When they behold a greater than themselves."

JULIUS CiESAR.

Montoni and his companion did not
return home till many hours after the dawn
had blushed upon the Adriatic. The airy
groups, which had danced all night along the
colonnade of St. Mark, dispersed before the
morning, like so many spirits. Montoni had
been otherwise engaged j his soul was little
susceptible of light pleasures. He delighted
in the energies of the passions ; the difficul-
ties and tempests of life, which wreck the
happiness of others, roused and strengthened
all the powers of his mind, and afforded him
t!» e highest enjoyments, of which his nature
was capable. Without some object of strong
interest, life was to him little more than a
sleep ; and, when pursuits of real interest
failed, he substituted artificial ones, till ha-
bit changed their nature, and they ceased to
be unreal. Of this kind was the habit of
gaming, which he had adopted, first, for the
purpose of relieving him from the languor
of inaction, but had since pursued with the
ardour of passion. In this occupation he had
passed the night with Cavigni and a party of
young men, who had more money than rank,
and more vice than either. Montoni despised
the greater part of these for the inferiority of
their talents, rather than for their vicious in-
clinations, and associated with them only to

THE MYSTERIES OF UDGLPHO.

fi»

make them the instruments of his purposes.
Among these, however, were some of supe-
rior abilities, and a few whom Montoni ad-
mitted to his intimacy ; but even towards
these he still preserved a decisive and haughty
air, which, while it imposed submission on
weak and timid minds, roused the fierce
hatred of strong ones. He had, of course,
many and bitter enemies ; but the rancour
of their hatred proved the degree of his
power; and, as power was his chief aim, he
gloried more in such hatred, than it was pos-
sible he could in being esteemed. A feeling
so tempered as that of esteem, he despised,
and would have despised himself also had he
thought himself capable of being flattered
by it.

Among the few whom he distinguished,
were the Signors Bertolini, Orsino, and Ve-
rezzi. The first was a man of a gay temper,
Btrong passions, dissipated, and of unbounded
extravagance, but generous, brave, and un-
suspicious. Orsino was reserved and haughty;
loving power more than ostentation; of a
cruel and suspicious temper ; quick to feel
an injury, and relentless in avenging it ; cun-
uing and unsearchable in contrivance, pa-
tient and indefatigable in the execution of
his schemes. He had a perfect command of
feature and of his passions, of which he had
scarcely any, but pride, revenge, and ava-
rice; and, in the gratification of these, few
considerations had power to restrain him, few
obstacles to withstand the depth of his stra-
tagems. This man was the chief favourite
of Montoni. Verezzi was a man of some
talent, of fiery imagination, and the slave of
alternate passions. He was gay, voluptu-
ous, aud daring; yet had neither perseve-
rance nor true courage, and was meanly
selfish in all his aims. Quick to form schemes,
and sanguine in his hope of success, he was
the first to undertake, and to abandon, not
only his own plans, but those adopted from
other persons. Proud and impetuous, he
revolted against all subordination ; yet those
who were acquainted with his character, and
watched the turn of his passions, could lead
him like a child.

Such were the friends whom Montoni in-
troduced to his family and his table, on the
day after his arrival at Venice. There were
also of the party a Venetian nobleman, Count
Morano, and a Signora Livona, whom Mon-
toni had introduced to his wife, as a lady of
distinguished merit, and who, having called
in the morning to welcome her to Venice,
had been requested to be of the dinnerparty.

Madame Montoni received, with a very
ill grace, the compliments of the signors.
She disliked them, because they were the
friends of her husband ; hated them, because
she believed they had contributed to detain

him abroad till so late an hour of the pre-
ceding morning;; and envied them, since,
conscious of her own want of .influence, she
was convinced, that he preferred their society
to her own. The rank of Count Morano
procured him that distinction which she re-
fused to the rest of the company. The
haughty sullenness of her countenance and
manner, and the ostentatious extravagance
of her dress, for she had not yet adopted the
Venetian habit, were strikingly contrasted by
the beauty, modesty, sweetness, and simpli-
city of Emily, who observed, with more
attention than pleasure, the party arouud
her. The beauty and fascinating manners
of Signora Livona, however, won her in-
voluntary regard ; while the sweetness of her
accents, and her air of gentle kindness,
awakened with Emily those pleasing affec-
tions which so long had slumbered.

In the cool of the evening the party em-
barked in Montoni's gondola, and rowed out
upon the sea. The red glow of sun-set still
touched the waves, and lingered in the west,
where the melancholy gleam seemed slowly
expiring, while the dark blue of the upper
aether began to twinkle with stars. Emily
sat, given up to pensive and sweet emotions.
The smoothness of the water, over which
she glided, its reflected images — a new hea-
ven and trembling stars below the waves,
with shadowy outlines of towers and portico,
conspired with the stillness of the hour, in-
terrupted only by the 'passing wave, or the
notes of distant music, to raise those emo-
tions to enthusiasm. As she listened to the
measured sound of the oars, and to the re-
mote warblings that came in the breeze, her
softened mind returned to the memory of St.
Aubert, and to Valancourt, and tears stole
to her eyes. The rays of the moon, strength-
ening as the shadows deepened, soon after
threw a silvery gleam upon her countenance,
which was partly shaded by a thin black veil,
and touched it with inimitable softness. —
Her's was the contour of a Madona, with
the sensibility of a Magdalen ; and the pen-
sive uplifted eye, with the tear that glittered
on her cheek, confirmed the expression of
the character.

The last strain of distant music now died
in air, for the gondola was far upon the
waves, and the party determined to have
music of their own. The Count Morano,
who sat next to Emily, and who had been
observing her for some time in silence,
snatched up a lute, and struck the chords
with the finger of harmony herself, while his
voice, a fine tenor, accompanied them in a
rondeau full of tender sadness. To him,
indeed, might have been applied that beaut i-
full exhortation of an Euglish poet, had it
then existed :—

so

THt MYSTERIES OF CDdif ho.

. . "Strike up, nry master,
l3ut touch the strings with a religious softness!
teach sounds to languish through the night s dull

Till melancholy starts from off her couch, ^
And Carelessness grows convert to Attention.

With such powers of expression the Count
sung the following

RONDEAU.
Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps

Upon the ocean's trembling tide i
Soft as the air, that lightly sweeps

Yon sail, that swells in stately pride
Soft as the surge's stealing note,

That dies along the distant shores,
Or warbled strain, that sinks remote—

So soft the sigh my bosom pours \
True as the wave to Cynthia's rayr
True as the vessel to the breeze,
True as the soul to music's swayr
Or music to Venetian seas :

Soft as yon silver beams, that sleep

Upon the ocean's trembling breast ;
So soft, so true, fond Love shall weep,
So soft, so true, with thee shall rest.
The cadence with which he returned from
the last stanza to a repetition of the first ;
the fine modulation in which his voice stole
upon the first line, and the pathetic energy
with which it pronounced the last, were
such as only exquisite taste could give.
When he had concluded, he gave the lute
with a sigh to Emily, who, to avoid any ap-
pearance of affectation, immediately began
to play. She sung a melancholy little air,
line of the popular songs of her native pro-
vince, with a simplicity and pathos that
made it enchanting. But its well-known
melody brought so forcibly to her fancy the
scenes and the persons, among which she
had often heard it, that her spirits were over-
come, her voice trembled and ceased — and the
stringsof thelute were struck with a disordered
hand; till, ashamed of thejemotion she had be-
trayed, she suddenly passed on to a song so
gay and airy, that the steps of the dance
seemed almost to echo to the notes. Bra-
vissimo! burst instantly from the lips of
her delighted auditors, and she was com-
pelled to repeat the air. Among the com-
pliments that followed, those of the Count
were not the least audible, and they had not
concluded, when Emily gave the instrument
to Signora Livona, whose voice accompanied
it with true Italian taste.

Afterwards the Count, Emily, Cavigni,
and the Signora, sung canzoneties, accom-
panied by a couple of lutes and a few other
instruments. Sometimes the instruments
suddenly ceased, and the voices dropped
from the full swell of harmony into
a low chant ; then, after a deep pause,
they rose by degrees, the instruments one
by one striking up, till the loud and full
chorus soared again to heaven !

Meanwhile, Montoni, who was weary of
this harmony, was considering how he might

disengage himself from his party, or with-
draw with such of it as would be willing to
play, to a Casino. In a pause of the music
he proposed returning to shore, a proposal
which Orsino eagerly seconded, but which
the Count and the other gentlemen as warm-
ly opposed.

Montoni still meditated how he might ex-
cuse himself from longer attendance upon
the Count,, for to him only he thought ex-
cuse necessary, and how he might get to
land, till the gondolieri of an empty boat,
returning to Venice, hailed his people.
Without troubling himself longer about an
excuse, he seized this opportunity of going
thither, and committing the ladies to the
care of his friends,, departed with Orsino,
while Emily, for the first time, saw him go
with regret 5 for she considered his presence
a protection, though she knew not what she
should fear. He landed at St. Mark's, and
hurrying to a Casino, was soon lost amidst
a crowd of gamesters.

Meanwhile, the Count having secretly
dispatched a servant in Montoni's boat, for
his own gondola and musicians, Emily heard
without knowing his projeet, the gay song
of gondolieri approaching, as they sat
on the stern of the boat, and saw the tre-
mulous * gleam of the moon-light wave,
which their oars disturbed. Presently she
heard the sound of instruments, and then
a full symphouy swelled on the air, and, the
boats meeting, the gondolieri hailed each
other. The Count then explaining himself,
the party removed into his gondola, which
was embellished with all that taste could
bestow.

While they partook of a collation of
fruits and ice, the whole band, following at
a distance,, in the other boat, played the
most sweet and enchanting strains, and the
Count, who had again seated himself by
Emily, paid her unremitted attention, and
sometimes, in a low but impassioned voice,
uttered compliments which she could not
misunderstand. To avoid them she con-
versed with Signora Livona, and her man-
ner to the Count assumed a mild reserve,
which, though dignified, was too gentle to
repre s his assiduities ; he could see, hear,
speak to no person, but Emily, while Ca-
vigni observed him now and then, with
look of displeasure, and Emily, with one 0/
uneasiness. She now wished for nothing so
much as to return to Venice, but it was near
midnight before the gondolas approached St.
Mark's Place, where the voice of gaiety
and song was loud. The busy hum of ming-
ling sounds was heard at a considerable dis-
tance on the water, and had not a bright
moon-light discovered the city, with its ter-
races and towers, a stranger would almost
have credited the fabled wonders of Nep-

tune's court) and believed, that the tumult
arose from beneath the waves.

They landed at St. Mark's, where the
gaiety of the colonnades and the beauty of
the night, made Madame Montoni willingly
submit to the Count's solicitations to join
the promenade, and afterwards to take a
supper with the rest of the party, at his
Casino. If any thing could have dissipated
Emily's uneasiness, it would have been Ihc
grandeur, gaiety, and novelty of the sur-
rounding scene, adorned with Palladio's pa-
laces, and busy with parties of masque-
raders.

At length they withdrew to the Casino,
which was fitted up with infinite taste, and
where a splendid banquet was prepared $
but here Emily's reserve made the Count
uerceive, that it was necessary for his in
terest to win the favour of Madame Mon-
toni, which, from the condescension she had
already shown to him, appeared to be an
achievement of no great difficulty. He trans-
ferred, therefore, part of his attention from
Emily to her aunt, who felt too much flat-
tered by the distinction even to disguise hei
emotion ; and, before the party broke up,
he had entirely engaged the esteem of Ma-
dame Montoni. Whenever he addressed
her, her ungracious countenance relaxed
into smiles, and to whatever he proposed
she assented. He invited her, with the rest
of the party, to take coffee, in nis box, at
the opera, on the following evening, and
Emily heard the invitation accepted, with
strong anxiety concerning the means of ex-

cusing herself from attending Madame Mon
toni thither.

It was very late before their gondola wa 1
* rdered, and Emily's surprise was extrcn <
when on quitting the Casino, she beheld thi
broad sun rising out of the Adriatic, whik
St. Mark's Place was yet crowded with
company. Sleep had long weighed heavily
on her eyes, but now the fresh ?ea-breez»
revived her, and she would have quitted tht1
scene with regret, had not the Count been
present, performing the duty which he had
imposed upon himself, of escorting them
home. There they heard that Montoni was
not yet returned 5 and his wife, retiring in
displeasure to her apartment, at length re-
leased Emily from the fatigue of further
attendance.

Montoni came home latt in the morning,
tti a very ill humour, having lost consi
derably at play, and, before 1 e withdrew to
rest, had a private conference with Cavigni,
whose manner, on the following day, seemed
to tell, that the subject of it had not been
pleasing to him.

In the evening, Madame Montoni, who,
during the day, had observed a sullen silence
towards her husband, received visits from
some Venetian ladies, with whose sweet
manners Emily was particularly charmed.
They bad an air of ease and kindness to
vards the strangers, as if they had been
their familiar friends for years 5 and their
conversation was by turns tender, senti-
mental, and gay. Madame, though she hatt
uo taste for such conversation, and whose

THE MYSTERIES OF UIX^WIO.

coarseness and selfishness sometimes exhi-
bited a ludicrous contrast to their excessive
refinement, could not remain wholly insen-
sible to the captivations of their manner.

In a pause of conversation, a lady who
was called Signora Hernainia took up a
lute, and began to play and sing, with as
much easy gaiety, as if she had been alone.
Her voice was uncommonly rich in tone,
and various in expression ; yet she appeared
to be entirely unconscious of its powers,
and meant nothing less than to display them.
She sung from the gaiety of her heart, as
she sat with her veil half thrown back, hold-
ing gracefully the lute, under the spreading
foliage and flowers of some plants, that rose
from baskets, and interlaced one of the lat-
tices of the saloon. Emily, retiring a little
from the company, sketched her figure,
with the miniature scenery around her, and
drew a very interesting picture, which,
though it would not, perhaps, have borne
criticism, had spirit and taste enough to
awaken both the fancy and the heart. When
she had finished it, she presented it to the
beautiful original, who was delighted with
the offering, as well as the sentiment it con-
veyed, and assured Emily, with a smile of
captivating sweetness, that she should pre-
serve it as a pledge of her friendship.

In the evening Cavigni joined the ladies,
but Montoui had other engagements ; and
they embarked in the gondola for St. Mark's,
where the same gay company seemed to
flutter as on the preceding night. The
cool breeze, the glassy sea, the gentle sound
of its waves, and the sweeter murmur of dis-
tant music ; the lofty porticos and arcades,
and the happy groups that sauntered be-
neath them ; these, with every feature and
circumstance of the scene, united to charm
Emily, no longer teased by the officious
attentions of Count Morano. But, as she
looked upon the moon-light sea, undulating
along the walls of St. Mark, and lingering
for a moment over those walls, caught the
sweet and melancholy song of some gondo-
lier as he sat in his boat below, waiting
for his master, her softened mind returned
to the memory of her home, of her friends,
and of all that was dear in her native
country.

After walking some time, they sat down
at the door of a Casino, and while Cavigni
was accommodating them with coffee and
ice, were joined by Count Morano. He
sought Emily with a look of impatient de-
light, who, remembering all the attention he
had shown her on the preceding evening,
was compelled, as before, to shrink from
his assiduities into a timid reserve, except
when she conversed with Signora Herminia
and the other ladies of her party.

It was near midnight before they with-
drew to the opera, where Emily was not so

charmed but that, when she remeinbeml
the scene she had just quitted, she felt how
infinitely inferior all the splendour of art
is to the sublimity of nature. Her hear*
was not now affected, tears of admiration
did not start to her eyes, as when she view
ed the vast expanse of ocean, the grandeur
of the heavens, and listened to the rolling
waters, and to the faint music that, at in-
tervals, mingled with their roar. Remem
bering these, the scene before her faded into
insignificance.

Of the evening, which passed on without
any particular incident, she wished the con-
clusion, that she might escape from the
attentions of the Count ; and, as opposite
qualities frequently attract each other in
our thoughts, thus Emily, when she looked
on Count Morano, remembered Valancourt,
and a sigh sometimes followed the recollec-
tion.

Several weeks passed in the course of cus-
I tomary visits, during which nothing remark-
able occurred. Emily was amused by the
manners and scenes that surrounded her, so
different from those of Ftance, but where
Count Morano, too frequently for her com-
fort, contrived to introduce himself. His
manner, figure, and accomplishments, which
were generally admired, Emily would per-
haps have admired also, had her heart been
disengaged from Valancourt, and had the
Count forborne to persecute her with offi-
cious attentions, during which she observed
some traits in his character, that prejudiced
her against whatever might otherwise be
good in it.

Soon after his arrival at Venice, Montoni
received a packet from M. Quesnel, in
which the latter mentioned the death of his
wife's uncle, at his villa on the Brenta ;
and that, in consequence of this event, he
should hasten to take possession of that
estate and of other effects bequeathed to
him. This uncle was the brother of Madame
Quesnel's late mother ; Montoni was related
to her by the father's side ; and though he
could have had neither claim nor expec-
tation concerning these possessions, he could
scarcely conceal the envy which M. Quesnel's
letter excited.

Emily had observed with concern, that,
since they left France, Montoni had not
even affected kindness towards her aunt,
and that, after treating her, at first, with
neglect, he now met her with uniform ill
humour and reserve. She had never sup
posed, that her aunt's foibles could have
escaped the discernment of Montoni, or that
her mind or figure were of a kind to de-
serve his attention. Her surprise, therefore,
at this match, had been extreme ; but since
he had made the choice, she did not expect
that he would so openly have discovered
his contempt of it. But Montoni, who had

THE MVSTEKIES OF UDOLPKO.

P3

been allured by the seeming wealth of
Madame Cheron, was now severely disap-
pointed by her comparative poverty, and
highly exasperated by the deceit she had
employed to conceal it, till concealment
was no longer necessary. He had been de-
ceived in an affair, wherein he meant to be
the deceiver ; outwitted by the superior
cunning of a woman, whose understanding
he despised, and to whom he had sacrificed
his pride and his liberty, without saving
himself from the ruin which had impended
over his head. Madame Montoni had con-
trived to have the greatest part of what she
really did possess, settled upon herself:
what remained, though it was totally ina-
dequate both to her husband's expectations,
and to his necessities, he had converted
into money, and brought with him to Venice,
that he might a little longer delude society,
and make a last effort to regain the fortunes
he had lost.

The hints which had been thrown out
to Valancourt concerning Montoni's cha-
racter and condition, were too true ; but it
was now left to time and occasion, to un-
fold the circumstances of what had, and
of what had not been hinted, and to time
and occasion we commit them.

Madame Montoni was not of a nature to
bear injuries with meekness, or to resent
them with dignity: her exasperated pride
displayed itself in all the violence and acri-
mony of a little, or at least of an ill-regu-
lated mind. She would not acknowledge,
even to herself, that she had in any degree
provoked contempt by her duplicity, but
weakly persisted in believing that she alone
was to be pitied, and Montoni alone to be
censured; for, as her mind had naturally
little perception of moral obligation, she
seldom understood its force but when it
happened to be violated towards herself:
her vanity had already been severely shocked
by a discovery of Montoni's contempt ; it
remained to be further reproved by a dis-
covery of his circumstances. His mansion
at Venice, though its furniture discovered
a part of the truth to unprejudiced persons,
told nothing to those who were blinded by
a resolution to believe whatever they wished.
Madame Montoni still thought herself little
less than a princess, possessing a palace at
Venice, and a castle among the Apennines.
To the castle of di Udolpho, indeed, Mon
toni sometimes talked of going for a few
weeks, to examine into its condition, and
to receive some rents ; for it appeared that
he had not been there for two years, and
that, curing this period, it had been inha-
bited only by an old servant, whom he called
his steward.

Emily listened to the mention of this jour-
ney, with pleasure, for she not only expected
from it new ideas, but a release from * h»

persevering assiduities of Count Morano.
In the country, too she would have leisure
to think of Valancourt, and to indulge the
melancholy, which his image, and a recol-
lection of the scenes of La Vallee, always
blessed with the memory of hei parents,
awakened. The ideal scenes were dearer
and more soothing to her heart, than all the
splendour of gay assemblies ; they were a
kind of talisman that expelled the poison of
emporary evils, and supported her hopes of
happy days : they appeared like a beautiful
landscape, lighted up by a gleam of sunshine,
and seen through a perspective of dark and
rugged rocks.

But Count Morano did not long confine
himself to silent assiduities; he declared his
passion to Emily, and made proposals to
Montoni, who encouraged, though Emily
rejected, him: with Montoni for his friend,
and an abundance of vanity to delude him,
he did not despair of success. Emily was
astonished and highly disgusted at his perse-
verance, after she had explained her sen-
timents with a frankness trat would not
allow him to misunderstand them

He now passed the greater part of hi*
time at Montoni's, dining there almost daily$
and attending Madame and Emily wherever
they went : and all this notwithstanding the
uniform reserve of Emily, whose aunt seemed
as anxious as Montoni to promote this mar-
riage, and would never dispense with her
attendance at any assembly where the Count
proposed to be present.

Montoni now said nothing of his intended
journey, of which Emily waited impatiently
to hear ; and he was seldom at home but
when the Count, or Signor Osino, was there,
for between himself and Cavigni a coolness
seemed to subsist, though the latter remained
in his house. With Orsino, Montoni was
frequently closet ted for hours together, and,
whatever might be the business upon which
they consulted, it appeared to be of conse-
quence, since Montoni often sacrificed to it
his favourite passion for play, and remained
at home the whole night. There was some-
what of privacy, too, in the manner of
Orsino's visits, which had never before oc-
curred, and which excited not only surprise,
but some degree of alarm in Emily's mind,
who had unwillingly discovered much of his
character when he had most endeavoured to
disguise it. After these visits, Montoni was
often more thoughtful than usual ; some
times the deep workings of his mind entirely
abstracted him from surrounding objects,
and threw a gloom over his visage that ren-
dered it terrible ; at others, his eyes seemed
almost to flash fire, and all the energies of
his soul appeared to be roused for some
great enterprise. Emily observed these
written characters of his thoughts with deep
interest, and not without some degree ol

P4

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPIIO.

awe, when she considered that she was en-
tirely in his power-, but forbore even to
hint her fears, or her observations to Madame
Montoni, who discerned nothing in her hus-
band at these times but his usual sternness.

A second letter from M.Quesnel announced
the arrival of himself and his lady at the
villa Miarenti $ stated several circumstances
of his good fortune, respecting the affair that
had brought him into Italy ; and concluded
with an earnest request to see Montoni, his
wife and niece, at his new estate.

Emily received, about the same period, a
much more interesting letter, and which
soothed for a while every anxiety of hea
heart. Valancourt, hoping she might be
still at Venice, had trusted a letter to the
ordinary post, that told her of his health,
and of his unceasi.isr and anxious affection.
He had lingered at Thoulouse for some time
after their departure, that he might indulge
themelancholypleasuieof wandering through
the scenes where he had been accustomed to
behold her, and had thence gone to his
brother's chateau, which was in the neigh-
bourhood of La Vallee. Having mentioned
this, he added, « If the duty of attending my
regiment did not require my departure, I
know not when I should have resolution
enough to quit the neighbourhood of a place
which is endeared by the remembrance of
you. The vicinity to La Vallee has alone
detained me thus long at Estuviere: I fre-
quently ride thither early In the morning,
that I may wander at leisure through the
day among scenes which were once your
home, where I have been accustomed to
see you, and to hear you converse. I have
renewed my acquaintance with the good
old Theresa, who rejoiced to see me, that
she might talk of you : I need not say
how much this circumstance attached me
to her, or how eagerly I listened to her
upon her favourite subject. You will guess
the motive that first induced me to make
myself known to Theresa; it was, indeed,
no other than that of gaining admittance
into the chateau and gardens, which my
Emily had so lately Inhabited : here, then,
I wander, and meet your image under every
shade : but chiefly I love to sit beneath the
spreading branches of your favourite plane,
where once, Emily, we sat together ; where
I first ventured to tell you that I loved.
O Emily! the remembrance of those moi
ments overcomes me — I sit lost in reverie —
I endeavoured to see you dimly through my
tears, in all the heaven of peace and inno-
cence, such as you then appeared to me ;
to hear again the accents of that voice,
which then thrilled my heart with tender-
ness and hope. I lean on the wall of the
terrace, where we together watched the
rapid current of the Garonne below, while I
described the wild scenery about its source,

but thought only of you. O Emily ! are
these moments passed for ever— will they
never more return ?

In another part of his letter he wrote
thus : — " You see my letter is dated on
many different days, and, if you look back
to the first, you will perceive, that I began
to write soon after your departure from
France. To write, was indeed the only
employment that withdrew me from my
own melancholy, and rendered your absence
supportable, or rather, it seemed to destroy
absence ; for, when I was conversing with
you on paper, and telling you every - senti-
ment and affection of my heart, you almost
appeared to be present. This employment
has been from time to time my chief conso-
lation, and I have deferred seeding off my
packet, merely for the comfort of prolong-
ing it, though it was certain that what 1
had written was written to no purpose till
you received it; Whenever my mind has
been more than usually depressed, I have
come to pour forth its sorrows to you, and
have always found consolation ; and, when
any little occurrence has interested my
heart, and given a gleam of joy to my spi-
rits, I have hastened to communicate it to
you, and have received reflected satisfaction.
Thus, my letter is a kind of picture of my
life and of my thoughts for the last month,
and thus, though it has been deeply inte-
resting to me, while I wrote it, and I dare
hope will, for the same reason, be not indif-
ferent to you, yet to other readers it would
seem to abound only in frivolities. Thus
it is always, when we attempt to describe
the finer movements of the heart, for they
are too fine to be discerned, they can only
be experienced, and are therefore passed
over by the indifferent observer, while the
interested one feels, that all description is
imperfect and unnecessary, except as it may
prove the sincerity of the writer, and sooth
his own sufferings. You will pardon all this
egotism — for I am a lover.

" I have just heard of a circumstance,
which entirely destroys all my fairy paradise -
of ideal delight, and which will reconcile
me to the necessity of returning to my regi-
ment, for I must no longer wander beneath
the beloved shades where I have been accus-
tomed to meet you in thought — La Vallee
is let ! I have reason to believe this is
without your knowledge, from what The-
resa told me this morning, and, therefore,
I mention the circumstance. She shed
tears, while she related, that she was going
to leave the service of her dear mistress,
and the chateau where she had lived so
many happy years ; and all this, added she,
without even a letter from Mademoiselle to
soften the news ; but it is all Mons. Ques-
nelTs doings, and I dare say she does not
even know what is going forward.

THE MYSTERIES OP UDOLPHO.

95

w Theresa added, that she had received

letter from him, informing her the chateau

vas let, and that, as her services would no

onger be required, she must quit the place,

on that day week, when the new tenant

would arrive.

a Theresa had been surprised by a visit
irom M. Quesnel, some time before the
-eceipt of this letter, who was accompanied
by a stranger that viewed the premises with
much curiosity."

Towards the conclusion of this letter,
which is dated a week after this sentence,
Valancourt adds, " I have received a sum-
mons from my regiment, and I join it
without regret, since I am shut out from
the scenes that are so interesting to my
heart. I rode to La Vallee this morning,
and heard that the new tenant was arrived,
and that Theresa was gone. I should not
treat the subject thus familiarly, if I did
not believe you to be uninformed of this
disposal of your house ; for your satisfaction
I have endeavoured to learn something of
the character and fortune of your tenant, but
without success. He is a gentleman, they
say, and this is all I can hear. The place,
as I wandered round the boundaries, ap-
peared more melancholy to my imagination,
than I had ever seen it. I wished earnestly
to have got admittance, that I might have
taken another leave of your favourite plane-
tree, and thought of you once more beneath
its shade : but I forbore to tempt the cu-
riosity of strangers : the fishing-house in the
woods, however, was still open'to me ; thither
I went, and passed an hour, which I cannot
even look back upon without emotion. O
Emily ! surely we are not separated for ever
—surely we shall live for each other P*

This letter brought many tears to Emily's
eyes ; tears of tenderness and satisfaction on
learning that Valancourt was well, and that
time and absence had in no degree effaced
her image from his heart. There were pas-
sages in this letter, which particularly af-
fected her, such as those describing his visits
to La Vallee, and the sentiments of delicate
affection that its scenes had awakened. It
was a considerable time before her mind was
fufficiently abstracted from Valancourt to
feel the force of his intelligence concerning
La Vallee. That Mons. Quesnel should let
•t, without even consulting her on the mea-
sure, both surprised and shocked her, par-
ticularly as it proved the absolute authority
&e thought himself entitled to exercise in her
affairs. It is true, he had proposed, before
ihe left France, isat the chateau should be
«t, during her absence, and to the economi-
cal prudence of this she had nothing to ob-
'<ect ; but the committing what had been her
father's villa, to the power and caprice of
strangers, and the depriving herself of a sure
»ome, should any unhappy circumstances

make her look back to her home as an asylum,
were considerations that made her, even
then, strongly oppose the measure. Her
father, too, in his last hour, had received
from her a solemn promise never to dispose
of La Vallee ; and this she considered as in
some degree violated, if she suffered the
place to be let. But it was now evident with
how little respect M. Quesnel had regarded
these objections, and how insignificant he
considered every obstacle to pecuniary ad-
vantage. It appeared, also, that he had
not even condescended to inform Montoni of
the step he had taken, since no motive was
evident for Montoni's concealing the circum-
stance from her, if it had been made known to
him: this both displeased and surprised her;
but the chief subjects of her uneasiness were—
the temporary disposal of La Vallee, and
the dismission of her father's old and faithful
servant. — " Poor Theresa," said Emily, "thou
hadst not saved much in thy servitude, for
thou wast always tender towards the poor,
and believedst thou shouldst die in the fa-
mily, where thy best years had been spent.
Poor Theresa ! — now art thou turned out in
thy old age to seek thy bread I" «

Emily wept bitterly as these thoughts
passed over her mind, and she determined
to consider what could be done for Theresa,
and to talk very explicity to M. Quesnel on
the subject ; but she much feared that his
cold heart could only feel for itself. She de
ter mined also to inquire whether he had
made any mention of her affairs, in his let-
ters to Montoni, who soon gave her the op
portunity she sought, by desiring that she
would attend him in his study. She had
little doubt, that the interview was intended
for the purpose of communicating to her a
part of M. QuesneFs letter concerning the
transactions at La Vallee, and she obeyed
him immediately. Montoni was alone.

" I have just been writing to Mons. Ques-
nel," said he, when Emily appeared, " in
reply to the letter I received from him a few
days ago, and I wished to talk to you
upon a subject that occupied part of it.'*

" I also wished to speak with you on this
topic, sir," said Emily.

" It is a subject of some interest to you,
undoubtedly," rejoined Montoni, "and I
think you must see it in the light that I do;
indeed it will not bear any other. I trust
you will agree with me, that any objection
founded on sentiment, as they call it, ought
to yield to circumstances of solid advan-
tage."

" Granting this, sir," replied Emily,
modestly, " those of humanity ought surely
to be attended to. But I fear it is now too
late to deliberate upon this plan, arid I much
regret, that it is no longer in my power to
reject it."

" It is too late," said Montoni } but since

m

THE MYSTERIES OF I7DOLPHO.

it is so, I am pleased to observe, that you
submit to reason and necessity without in-
dulging useless complaint. I applaud this
conduct exceedingly, the more, perhaps,
since it discovers a strength of mind seldom
observable in your sex. When you are
older you will look back with gratitude to
the friends who assisted in rescuing you from
the romantic illusions of sentiment, and will
perceive, that they are only the snares of
childhood, and should be vanquished the
moment you escape from the nursery. I
have not closed my letter, and you may add
a few lines to inform your uncle of your ac-
quiescence. You will soon see him, for it is
my intention to take you, with Madame
Montoni, in a few days to Miarenti, and you
can then talk over the affair."

Emily wrote on the opposite page of the
paper as follows : —

" It is now useless, sir, for me to remon-
strate upon the circumstances of which Sig-
nor Montoni informs me that he has written.
I could have wished, at least, that the
affair had been concluded with less precipi-
tation, that I might have taught myself to
subdue some prejudices, as the signor calls
them, which still linger in my heart. As it
is, I submit. In point of prudence nothing
certainly can be objected; but, though I
submit, I have yet much to say on some
other points of the subject, when I shall
have the honour of seeing you. In the
mean time I intreat you will take care of
Theresa, for the sake of,
Sir,
Your affectionate niece,

Emily St. Aubert."

Montoni smiled satirically at what Emily
had written, but did not object to it, and she
withdrew to her own apartment, where she
sat down to begin a letter to Valancourt, in
which she related the particulars of her
journey, and her arrival at Venice, described
some of the most striking scenes in the pas-
sage over the Alps ; her emotions on her first
view of Italy 5 the manners and characters
of the people around her, and some few cir-
cumstances of Montoni's conduct. But she
avoided even naming Count Morano, much
more the declaration he had made, since she
well knew how tremblingly alive to fear is
real love, how jealously watchful of every
circumstance that may affect its interest ;
and she scrupulously avoided to give Valan-
court even the slightest reason for believing
he had a rival.

On the following day Count Morano dined
again at Montoni's. He was in an uncom-
mon flow of spirits, and Emily thought
there was somewhat of exultation in his
manner of addressing her, which she had
never observed before. She endeavoured to

repress this by more than her usual reserve,
but the cold civility of her air now seemed
rather to encourage than to depress him.
He appeared watchful of an opportunity of
speaking with her alone, and more than
once solicited this ; but Emily always re-
plied, that she could hear nothing from him
which he would be unwilling to repeat be-
fore the whole company.

In the evening, Madame Montoni and her
party went out upon the sea, and as the
Count led Emily to his zendaletto, he cai
ried her hand to his lips, and thanked lit
for the condescension she had shown him.
Emily, in extreme surprise and displeasure,
hastily withdrew her hand, and concluded
that he had spoken ironically ; but, on
reaching the steps of the terrace, and ob-
serving by the livery, that it was the count*s
zendaletto, which waited below, while the
rest of the party, having arranged them-
selves in the gondolas, were moving on, she
determined not to permit a separate con-
versation, and, wishing him a good evening,
returned to the portico. The count followed
to expostulate and entreat, and Montoni,
who then came out, rendered solicitation
unnecessary, for, without condescending to
speak, he took her hand, and led her to the
zendaletto. Emily was not silent ; she en-
treated Montoni, in a low voice, to consider
the impropriety of these circumstances, and
that he would spare her the mortification of
submitting to them ; he, however, was in-
flexible.

" This caprice is intolerable," said he,
<c and shall not be indulged : here is no im-
propriety in the case."

At this moment, Emily's dislike of
Count Morano arose to abhorrence. That
he should, with undaunted assurance,
thus pursue her, notwithstanding all she
had expressed on the subject of his ad-
dresses, and think, as it was evident he did,
that her opinion of him was of no conse-
quence, so long as his pretensions were
sanctioned by Montoni, added indignation
to the disgust which she had felt towards
him. She was somewhat relieved by observ-
ing that Montoni was to be of the party,
who seated himself on one side of her, while
Morano placed himself on the other. There
was a pause of some moments as the gondo-
lieri prepared their oars, and Emily trem-
bled from apprehension of the discourse that
might follow this silence. At length she col-
lected courage to break it herself, in the hope
of preventing fine speeches from Morano,
and reproof from Montoni. To some trivial
remark which she made, the latter returned
a short and disobliging reply j but Morano
immediately followed with a general obser- .
vation, which he contrived to end with a par-
tial lar compliment, and, though Emily

THE MYSTERIES OF UD01JPHO.

S7

passed it without even the notice of a smile,
he was not discouraged.

" I have been impatient," said he, address-
ing Emily, a to express my gratitude, to
thank you for your goodness ; but I must
also thank Signor Montoni, who has allowed
me this opportunity of doing so."

Emily regarded the count with a look of
mingled astonishment and displeasure.

" Why," continued he, u should you wish
io diminish the delight of this moment by
that air of cruel reserve 1-^-Why seek to
throw me again into the perplexities of
<ioubt, by teaching your eyes to contradict
the kindness of your late declaration ? You
cannot doubt the sincerity, the ardour of
my passion ; it is therefore unnecessary.,
charming Emily! surely unnecessary, any
longer to attempt a disguise of your senti-
ments.**

" If 1 ever had disguised them, sir," said
Emily, with recollected spirit, $4 it would
certainly be unnecessary any longer to do
so. I had hoped, sir, that you would have
spared me any further necessity of alluding
to them ; but, since you do not grant this,
hear me declare, and for the last time, that
your perseverance has deprived you even of
the esteem which I was inclined to believe
you merited."

u Astonishing !" exclaimed Montoni :
41 this is beyond even my expectation,
though I have hitherto done justice to the
caprice of the sex ! But you will observe,
Mademoiselle Emily, that I am no lover,
though Count Morano is, and that I will not
be made the amusement of your capricious
moments. Here is the offer of an alliance,
which would do honour to any family;
your's, you will recollect, is not noble ; you
long resisted my remonstrances, but my ho-
nour is now engaged, and it shall not be
trifled with. — You shall adhere to the decla-
ration, which you have made me an agent to
convey to the count."

" I must certainly mistake you, sir," said
Emily ; " my answers on the subject have
been uniform ; it is unworthy of you to ac-
cuse me of caprice. If you have conde-
scended to be my agent, it is an honour i
4id not solicit. I myself have constantly
assured Count Morano, and you also, sir,
that I never can accept the honour he offers
me, and I now repeat the declaration."

The count looked with an air of surprise
and inquiry at Montoni, whose countenance
also was marked with surprise, but it was
surprise mingled with indignation.

" Here is confidence, as well as caprice !"
said the latter. " Will you deny your own
words, madam ?"

" Such a question is unworthy of an an-
swer, sir," said Emily, blushing; " you will
recollect yourself, and be sorry that you have
asked it."

J3

w Speak to the point," rejoined Montoni
in a voice of increasing vehemence. u Will
you deny your own words ? will you deny,
that you acknowledged, only a few hours
ago, that it was too late to recede from your
engagements, and that you accept the count's
hand?"

" I will deny all this, for no words of mine
ever imported it."

" Astonishing ! Will you deny what you
wrote to Mons. Quesnel, your uncle? If
you do, your own hand will bear testimony
against you. What have you now to say ?"
continued Montoni, observing the silence and
confusion of Emily.

¥ I now perceive, sir, that you are under
a very great error, and that I have been
equally mistaken."

" No more duplicity, I entreat ; be open
and candid, if it be possible."

" I have always been so, sir ; and can
claim no merit in such conduct, for I have
had nothing to conceal."

u How is this, signor ?" cried Morano,
with trembling emotion.

" Suspend your judgment, count," replied
Montoni ; " the wiles of a female heart are
unsearchable. Now, madam, youvexplana-
tionP

" Excuse me, sir, if I withhold my expla-
nation till you appear willing to give me
your confidence ; assertion at present can
only subject me to insult."

" Your explanation, I entreat you," said
Morano.

« Well, well," rejoined Montoni, « I give
you my confidence; let us hear this expla-
nation."

* Let me lead to it, then, by asking a
question."

" As many as you pfcase," said Montoni,
contemptuously.

" What, then, was the subject of your
letter to Mons. Quesuel >"

" The same that was the subject of your
note to him, certainly. You did well to sti-
pulate for my confidence before you de-
manded that question."

" I must beg you will be more explicit,
sir ; what was that subject ?"

" What could it be, but the noble offer of
Count Morano ?" said Montoni.

" Then, sir, we entirely misunderstood
each other," replied Emily.

" We entirely misunderstood each other
too, I suppose," rejoined Montoni, " in the
conversation which preceded the writing of
that note? I must do you the justice to
own, that you are very ingenious at this
same art of misunderstanding."

" Emily tried to restrain the tears that
came to her eyes, arid to answer with be-
coming firmness. " Allow me, sir, to ex-
plain myself fully, or to be wholly silent."

" The explanation may now be dispensed

98

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

with ; it is anticipated. If Count Morano
still thinks one necessary, I will give him an
honest one.— You have changed your inten-
tions since our last conversation ; and, if he
can have patience and humility enough to
wait till to-morrow, he will probably find it
changed again : but as I have neither the
patience nor the humility, which you expect
from a lover, I warn you of the effect of my
displeasure !"

** Montoni, you are too precipitate," said
the count, who had listened to this conver-
sation in extreme anxiety and impatience :
— " Signora, I entreat your own explanation
of this affair !"

" Signor Montoni has said justly," replied
Emily, " that all explanation may now be
dispensed with ; after what has passed I
cannot suffer myself to give one. It is suf-
ficient for me, and for you, sir, that I repeat
my late declaration ; let me hope this is the
last time it will be necessary for me to re-
peat it — I never can accept the honour of
your alliance."

" Charming Emily!" exclaimed the count
in an impassioned tone, " let not resentment
make you unjust; let me not suffer for the
offence of Montoni ! — Revoke "

" Offence!" interrupted Montoni

" Count, this language is ridiculous, this
submission is childish : — Speak as becomes
a maw, not as the slave of a petty tyrant."

" You distract me, signor ; suffer me to
plead my own cause; you have already
proved insufficient to it."

"All conversation on this subject, sir, *
said Emily, " is worse than useless, since it
can bring only pain to each of us : if you
Mould oblige me, pursue )* uo further."

" It is impossible, mad* , that I can thus
easily resign the object of a passion which
is the delight and torment of my life. — I
must still love — still pursue you with unre-
mitting ardour; — when you shall be con-
vinced of the strength and constancy of my
passion, your heart must soften into pity
and repentance."

" Is this generous, sir ? is this manly ?
Can it either deserve or obtain the esteem
you solicit, thus to continue a persecution
from which I have no present means of es-
caping ?"

A gleam of moon-light that fell upon Mo-
rano's countenance, revealed the strong emo-
tions of his soul ; and, glancing on Montoni,
discovered the dark resentment which con-
trasted his features.

" By heaven, this is too much !" suddenly
exclaimed the count; "Signor Montoni,
you treat me ill ; it is from you that I shall
look for explanation."

" From me, sir ! you shall have it," mut-
tered Montoni ; if your discernment is in-
deed so far obscured by passion, as to make
explanation necessary. And for you, ma-

dam, you should learn, that a man of ho
nour is not to be trifled with, though yon
may, perhaps, with impunity, treat a boy
like a puppet."

This sarcasm roused the pride of Morano,
and the" resentment which he had felt at the
indifference of Emily, being lost in indigna-
tion of the insolence of Montoni, he deter-
mined to mortify him by defending her.

" This also," said he, replying to Mon-
toni's last words, " this also, shall not pass
unnoticed. I bid you learn, sir, that you
have a stronger enemy than a woman to
contend with : I will protect Signora St. Au-
bert from your threatened resentment.
You have misled me, and would revenge
your disappointed views upon the innocent."

" Misled you !" retorted Montoni with
quickness ; " is my conduct — my word — "
then pausing, while he seemed endeavouring
to restrain the resentment that flashed in his
eyes, in the next moment he added, in a sub-
dued voice, " Count Morano, this is a lan-
guage, a sort of conduct, to which I am not
accustomed : it is the conduct of a pas-
sionate boy — as such, I pass it over in con-
tempt."

" In contempt, signor ?"

" The respect I owe myself," rejoined
Montoni, " requires that I should converse
more largely with you upon some points 01
the subject in dispute. Return with me to
Venice, and I will condescend to convince
you of your error."

" Condescend, sir ! but I will not conde-
scend to be so conversed with."

Montoni smiled contemptuously; and
Emily, now terrified for the consequences of
what she saw and heard, could no longer be
silent. She explained the whole subject
upon which she had mistaken Montoni in
the morning, declaring that she understood
him to have consulted her solely concerning
the disposal of La Vallee, and concluded
with entreating, that he would write imme-
diately to M. Quesnel, and rectify the mis-
take.

But Montoni either was, or affected to be,
still incredulous ; and Count Morano was
still entangled in perplexity. While she was
speaking, however, the attention of her au-
ditors had been diverted from the immediate
occasion of their resentment, and their pas
sion consequently became less. Montoni
desired the count would order his servants
to row back to Venice, that he might have
some private conversation with him ; and
Morano, somewhat soothed by his softened
voice and manner, and eager to examine
into the full extent of his difficulties, ton*
plied.

Emily, comforted by this prospect of re-
lease, employed the present moments in
endeavouring, with conciliating care, to
prevent any fatal mischief between the per-

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

90

stms who so lately had persecuted and in-
sulted her.

Her spirits revived, when she heard once
more the voice of song and laughter resound-
ing from the grand canal, and at length
entered again between its stately piazzas.
The zendaletto stopped at M ontoni's man-
sion, and the count hastily led her into the
hall, where Montoni took his arm, and said
something in a low voice, on which Morano
Kissed the hand he held, notwithstanding
Emily's effort to disengage it, and, wishing
her a good evening, with an accent and look
she could not misunderstand, returned to his
zendaletto with Montoni.

Emily, in her own apartment, considered
with intense anxiety, all the unjust and ty-
rannical couduct of Montoni, the dauntless
perseverance of Morano, and her own deso-
late situation, removed from her friends and
country. She looked in vain to Valancourt,
confined by his profession to a distant king-
dom, as her protector ; but it gave her com-
fort to know, that there was, at least, one
person in the world, who would sympathize
in her afflictions, and whose wishes would
fly eagerly to release her. Yet she deter-
mined not to give him unavailing pain by-
relating the reasons she had to regret the
having rejected his better judgment con-
cerning Montoni ; reasons, however, which
could not induce her to lament the delicacy
and disinterested affection that had made
her reject his proposal for a clandestine mar-
riage. The approaching interview with her
uncle she regarded with some degree of hope,
for she determined to represent to him the
distresses of her situation, and to entreat
that he would allow her to return to France
-with him and Madame Quesnel. Then, sud-
denly remembering that her beloved La
Vallee, her only home, was no longer at her
command, her tears flowed anew, and she
feared that she had little pity to expect from
a man who, like M. Quesnel, could dispose
of it without deigning to consult with her,
and could dismiss an aged and faithful ser-
vant, destitute of either support or asylum.
But, though it was certain, that she had her-
self no longer a home in France, and fewy
very few friends there, she determined to re-
turn, if possible, that she might be released
from the power of Montoni, whose particu-
larly oppressive conduct towards herself,
and general character as to others, were
justly terrible to her imagination. She had
no wish to reside with her uncle, M. Ques-
nel, since his behaviour to her late father,
and to herself, had been uniformly such as
to convince her, that in flying to him she
could only obtain an exchange of oppressors;
neither had she the slightest intention of
consenting to the proposal of Valancourt for
an immediate marriage, though this would
give her a lawful and a generous protector j

for the chief reasons, which had formerly in
fluenced her conduct, still existed against it,
while others which seemed to justify the
step, would now be done away ; and his in-
terest, his fame, were at all times too dear to
her, to suffer her to consent to an union,
which, at this early period of their lives,
would probably defeat both. One sure, and
proper asylum, however, would still be open
to her in France. She knew that she could
board in the convent, where she had former-
ly experienced so much kindness, and which
had an affecting and solemn claim upon her
heart, since it contained the remains of her
late father. Here she could remain in safety
and tranquillity, till the term for which La
Vallee might be let, should expire ; or till
the arrangement of M. Motteviile's affairs
enabled her so far to estimate the remains of
her fortune, as to judge whether it would be
prudent for her to reside there

Concerning Montoni's conduct with re^
spect to his letter to M. Quesnel, she had
many doubts ; however he might be at first
mistaken On the subject, she much suspected
that he wilfully persevered in his error, as a
means of intimidating her into a compliance
with his wishes of uniting her to Count Mo~
rano. Whether this was or was not the fact,
she was extremely anxious to explain the
affair to M. Quesnel, and looked forward
with a mixture of impatience, hope, and
fear, to her approaching visit.

On the following day, Madame Montoni,
being alone with Emily, introduced the men-
tion of Count Morano, by expressing her
surprise, that she had not joined the party
on the water the preceding evening, and at
her abrupt departure to Venice. Emily
then related what had passed, expressed her
concern for the mutual mistake that had oc-
curred between Montoni and herself, and soli-
cited her aunt's kind offices in urging him
to give a decisive denial to the count's'fur-
ther addresses ; but she soon perceived,"* hat
Madame Montoni had not been ignorant of
the late conversation, when slie introduced
the present.

u You have no encouragement to expect
from me," said her aunt, " in these notions.
I have already given my opinion on the sub-
ject, and think Signor Montoni right in en
forcing, by any means, your consent. If
young persons will be blind to their interest,
and obstinately oppose it, why, the greatest
blessings they can have are friends, who will
oppose their folly. Pray, what pretensions
of any kind do you think you have to such
a match as is now offered you."

a Not any whatever, madam,1' replied
Emily ; " and, therefore, at least, suffer me
to be happy in my humility."

" Nay, niece, it cannot be denied that you
have pride enough ; my poor brother,
your father, had his share of pride too;

100

THE MYSTERIES OF unoi.PHO.

though let mc add, his fortune did not jus-
l.ty it."

Kmilv, somewhat embarrassed by the in.
dig nation which tins malevolent allusion to
her father excited, and by the ditHculty of
rendering her mifir as temperate as it
■Would l>e reprehensive, hesitated for some
moments, in I eonfusion which hi^lily gra-
tified her aunt. At length she said, " My
father's pride, madam, had a noble objoet —
the happiness which he knew eould be de-
i ivod only from goodness, knowledge, and
eharity. As it never eonsisted in his supe-
riority, in point of fortune, to some persons,
it was not humbled by his inferiority, in
that respeet, to others. He never disdained
thope who were wretehed by poverty and
misfortune; he did sometimes despise per-
sons, who, with many opportunities oi hap-
piness, rendered themselves miserable by va-
nity, ignorance, and eruelty. 1 shall think
it my highest glory to emulate sueh pride."

" I do not pretend to understand any-
thing of these high-flown sentiments, nieee ;
von have all that glory to yourself : 1 would
fetch you a little plain sense, and not have
you so wise as to despise happiness."

" That would indeed not l>e wisdom, but
folly," said Emily, ■ for wisdom ean boast
no higher attainment than happiness; but
you >vill allow, madam, that our ideas of
happiness may ditVer. I eannot doubt, that
you wish me to be happy, but I must fear
you are mistaken in the means of making
me so.*'

u I caimot boast oi a learned education,
niece, such as your father thought proper to
give you, and therefore do not pretend to
understand all these tine speeches about
happiness. I must be contented to under,
stand only common sense, and happy would
it have been for you and your father, if that
had been included in his education."

Emily was too much shoekod by these re-
flections on her father's memory, to despise
this speech as it deserved.

Madame Montoui was about to speak, but
Emily quitted the room, and retired to her
own, where the little spirit she had lately
s ted yielded to grief and vexation, ami
left her only to her teal's. From every re-
^ iew of her situation, she could derive, in-
deed, only new sorrow. To the discovery,
which had just been forced upon her, of
jfontonTs nnvnrthsness, she had now to add
that of the cruel vanity, for the gratification
tf which her aunt was about to sacrifice her;
*it* the effrontery and cunning with which, at
Ae time she meditated the saeritu e,she hi
l\l of her tenderness, or insulted her victim ;
Old of the venomous envy, which, as it did
not scruple to attack her father's character,
could scarcely be expected to withhold from
ner own.

Dunns the few davs that iateivened be-

tween this conversation and the departure
for IMiarenti, Montoui did not (Mice address
himself to Kmily. His looks sufficiently de-
clared his resentment ; but that he should
forbear to renew a mention of the subject of
it, exceedingly surprised her, who was no

less astonished that, during three days,
Count IMorano neither visited Montoui, nor
was named by him. Several conjectures
arose in her mind. Sometimes she feared
that the dispute between them had been re-
vived, and had ended fatally to the count.
Sometimes she was inclined to hope that
weariness, or disgust at her firm rejection of
his suit, had induced him to relinquish it j
and, at others, she suspected that he had
now recourse to stratagem, and forbore his
visits, and prevailed with Montoui to for-
bear the repetition of his name, in the ex-
pectation that gratitude and generosity
would prevail with her to give him the con-
sent, which he could not hope from love.

Thus passed the time in vain conjecture,
and alternate hopes and fears, till the day
arrived when Montoui was to set out for
the villa of Miarenti, which, like the preced-
ing ones, neither brought the count, nor the
mention of him.

Montoui having determined not to leave
Venice till towards evening, that he might
avoid the heats, and catch the cool breezes
of night, embarked about an hour before
sun-set, with his family, in a barge for the
Brenta. Emily sat alone near the stern of
the vessel, and, as it floated slowly on,
watched the gay and lofty city lessening
from her view, till its palaces seemed to sink
in the distant wares, while its loftier towers
and domes, illumined by the declining sun,
appeared on the horizon, like those tar-seen
clouds, which, in more northern climes, of-
ten linger on the western verge, and catch
the last light of a summer's evening. Soon
after, even these grew dim, and faded in dis-
tance from her sight ; but she still sat gaz-
ing on the vast scene of cloudless sky and
mighty waters, and listening in pleasing awe
to die deep-sounding waves, while, as her
eyes glanced over the Adriatic, towards the
opposite shores, which were, however, far
beyond the reach of sight, she thought of
Greece, and, a thousand classical remem-
brances stealiug to her mind, she experien-
ced that pensive luxury which is felt on view-
ing the scenes of ancient story, and on com-
paring their present state of silence and so-
ltude with that of their former grandei
and animation. The scenes of the Hit
illapsed in glowing colours to her fancy
scenes, once the haunt of heroes — now loi
ly and in ruins ; but which still shone,
the poet's strain, in all their youthful sph
dour.

As her imagination painted, with
choly touches, the deserted plains of

THE MYSTERIES OF IDOLPHu. 101

such as they appeared in this after-day,
reanimated the landscape with the
tittle story.

Or Dmnfi ajmnw, wheat Mn m* ananas bma,
ice the poet nis'd his deathless stnia,
O'er I Lion's plains a weary aim led
His stately camels: For the read mse,

Wide iwnid the loodT seeae his efaace be

Foraowthe red *
Aad twiiiefct oa tfae

There, on the grey
Base the

A-

Baaaaft iWb p
Them, ham ma
sVunia asnVssem

:zc aw, :

j^v caahnaf nil retreats, a

was pO d ; on the calm, and u soil
ad here, Mi cvaae aad empty wallet lay, The $,„, uvm sma^i below the

Aadthe^tfet^thatcaeaVdhu.-the u^T^

The robber Tartar aa his alaamber stale, ■"■f* *

For o'er the waste, at ere, be watch d his train: its features

Ah • who his thirst of pleader shall control ? ritv. She

Who calls o« him for merry—calls ia raia evenings, when with St.

A aaassa'd aeagaaed ia his belt he wane, served the shades of

tL T^^^^F^t^ \^^ sees* as l«wfirwf as this, fitm the

J i«T GtMlCTLl CU1U. 1. .. .> i? av S. Bl BBSS, - r v~ n j *• ii .. i

Aad infant*-at his rery look had died! of La Vallee, and a tear Ml to the

Toe moon's cotf beam athwart the temple fell, ofherfcther. Her spirits were

Aad to his sleeping prev the Tartar led; to melancholy by the influence of the hoar,

Bat soft '—a startled camel shook his bell. bv the low murmur of the ware in i an un-

Thea JWchd bis limbs, aadreard his drowsy ^ tbe resse|> ^ ^ ^Hb^ <* the aw,

,, _ , _^_^ v -^. that trembled oolv at mtervak with

blow; meats, hare looked on her

When from as unknown hand the^ arrows tv, Yalancourt with pte&ages so very _

That lay the ramaa, ia bis vengeance, law. ^^ ^ bad hot latelv received

^a'^'i^AmSS' ^T.^m.r1"1*"14 ** frwn him» tbat hil1 soothed for a while all

wt^tt^^lSnJded ate* sSSbta, *** a^ " »» 1«?M^ *f **1

mark'd the robber steal where Hornet slept, pressed nnud> that she had taken teare of

He fisrd his on, aad savd a stronger s lite ! *"* f^ ever, and that the countries, whkh

Hamet d*>p*d him to bis «ratrful heart 5 separated them, would never asore he traced

Then, ro ^ bv her She looked

^shepherd, hasten a to depart. bia^ as m soenc de^ the cause of

A?nHd Jh^*^***8 ^ ^ ^ ^ bwt aP*rt ***** ¥■»> * conrktio^ tf

Aad aaw9 taa ana, ham aadai tuahn At rod, *■** ■»>■ °* *alkd> whkh

Looks, gaily forth, asd melts her auv shroud proof, and which she knew not how to no

103

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

count for, seized her mind — that she should
never see Valancourt again. Though she
knew, that neither Morano's solicitations,
nor Montoni's commands, had lawful power
to enforce her obedience, she regarded
both with a superstitious dread, that they
would finally prevail.

Lost in this melancholy reverie, and shed-
ding frequent tears, Emily was at length
roused by Montoni, and she followed him to
the cabin, where refreshments were spread,
and her aunt was seated alone. The coun-
tenance of Madame Montoni was inflamed
with resentment, that appeared to be the
consequence of some conversation she had
held with her husband, who regarded her
with a kind of sullen disdain, and both pre*
served, for some time, a haughty silence.
Montoni then spoke to Emily of Mons.
Quesnel : " You will not, I hope, persist in
disclaiming your knowledge of the subject
of my letter to him ?"

" 1 had hoped, sir, that it was no longer
necessary for me to disclaim it," said Emily ;
** I had hoped, from your silence, that you
was convinced of your error.'*

" You have hoped impossibilities then,"
replied Montoni ; " I might as reasonably
have exptcted to find sincerity and unifor-
mity of conduct in one of your sex, as you
to convict me of error in this affair."

Emily blushed, and was silent •, she now
perceived too clearly, that she had hoped an
impossibility, for, where no mistake had
been committed, no conviction could follow;
and it was evident, that Montoni's conduct
had not been the consequence of mistake,
but of design.

Anxious to escape from conversation,
which was both afflicting and humiliating
to her, she soon returned to the deck, and
resumed her station near the stern, without
apprehension of cold, for no vapour rose
from the water, and the air was dry and
tranquil ; here, at least, the benevolence of
nature allowed her the quiet which Montoni
had denied her elsewhere. It was now past
midnight. The stars shed a kind of twilight,
that served to show the dark outline of the
shores on either hand, and the grey surface
of the river ; till the moon rose from behind
a high palm-grove, and shed her mellow lus-
tre over the scene. The vessel glided
smoothly on : amid the sti.iness of the hour
Emily heard, now and then, the solitary
voice of the bargemen on the bank as they
spoke to their, horses ; while, front a remote
part of the vessel, with melancholy song,

" the sailor sooth' d,

I>»Death the trembttug moon* the midnight wave/*

Emily, meanwhile, anticipated her recep-
tion by Mons. and Madame Quesnel ; con-
sidered what she should say on the subject
of La Yallee ; and then, to withhold her

mind from more anxious topics^ tried to
amuse herself by discriminating the faint-
drawn features of the landscape reposing in
the moon-light. While her fancy thus wan-
dered, she saw, at a distance, a building
peeping between the moon-light trees, and,
as the barge approached, heard voices speak*
ing, and soon distinguished the lofty portico
of a villa, overshadowed by groves of pine
and sycamore, which she recollected to be
the same, that had formerly been pointed
out to her, as belonging to Madame Ques-
nel's relative.

The barge stopped at a flight of marble
steps, which led up the bank to a lawn.
Lights apoeared between some pillars be-
yond the portico. Montoni sent forward his
servant, and then disembarked with his fa-
mily. They found Mons. and Madame
Quesnel i with a few friends, seated on sofas
in the portico, enjoying the cool breeze of
the night, and eating fruits and ices, while
some of their servants at a little distance on
the river's bank, were performing a simple
serenade. Emily was now accustomed to
the way of living in this warm country, and
was not surprised to find Mons. and Ma-
dame Quesnel in their portico, two hours
after midnight.

The usual salutations being over, the
company seated themselves in the portico,
and refreshments were brought them from
the adjoining hall, where a banquet was
spread, and the servants attended. When
the bustle of this meeting had subsided, and
Emily had recovered from the little flutter
into which it had thrown her spirits, she was
struck with the singular beauty of the hall,
so perfectly accommodated to the luxuries
of the season. It was of white marble, and
the roof, rising into an open cupola, was
supported by columns of the same material.
Two opposite sides of the apartment, termi-
nating in open porticos, admitted to the hall
a full view of the gardens, and of the river
scenery ; in the centre a fountain continu
ally refreshed the air, and seemed to height-
en the fragrance, that breathed from the
surrounding orangeries, while its dashing
waters gave an agreeable and soothing
sound. Etruscan lamps, suspended from
the pillars, diffused a brilliant light over the
interior part of the hall, leaving the re-
moter porticos to the softer lustre of the
moon.

Mons. Quesnel talked apart to Montoni
of his own affairs, iu his usual strain of self-
importance ; boasted of his new acquisi-
tions, and then affected to pity some disap
pointmentp, which Montoni had lately sus*
tained. Meanwhile, the latter, whose pridf
at least enabled him to despise such vanity
as this, and whose discernment at once de-
tected, under this assumed pity, the frivol
ous malignity of QuesnePs mind, listened to

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPI-IO.

to;i

him in contemptuous silence, till he named
his niece, and then they left the portico, and
walked away into the gardens.

Emily* however, still attended to Madame
Quesnel, who spoke of France (for even the
name of her native country was dear to her),
and she found some pleasure in looking at a
person who had lately been in it. That
country, too, was inhabited by Valancourt,
and she listened to the mention of it with a
faint hope that he also would be named.
Madame Quesnel, who, when she was in
France, had talked with rapture of Italy,
now that she was in Italy, talked with equal
praise of France, and endeavoured to excite
the wonder and the envy of her auditors by
accounts of places which they had not been
happy enough to see. In these descriptions
she not only imposed upon them, but upon
herself, for she never thought a present
pleasure equal to one that was passed ; and
thus the delicious climate, the fragrant
orangeries, and all the luxuries which sur-
rounded her, slept unnoticed, while her
fancy wandered over the distant scenes of a
northern country.

Emily listened in vain for the name of
Valancourt. Madame Montoni spoke in
her turn of the delights of Venice, and of
the pleasure she expected from visiting the
fine castle of Montoni, on the Apennine;
which latter mention, at least, was merely a
retaliating boast, for Emily well knew that
her aunt had no taste for solitary grandeur,
and, particularly, for such as the castle of
Udolpho promised. Thus the party con-
tinued to converse, and, as far as civility
would permit, to torture each other by mu-
tual boasts, while they reclined on sofas in
the portico, and were environed vrith de-
lights both from nature and art, by which
any honest minds would have been temper-
ed to benevolence, and happy imaginations
wonld have been soothed into enchantment.

The dawn, soon after, trembled in the
eastern horizon, and the light tints of morn-
ing, gradually expanding, showed the beau-
tiful declining forms of the Italian moun-
tains, and the gleaming landscapes stretched
at their feet. Then the sun-beams, shooting
up from behind the hills, spread over the
6cene that fine saffron tinge, which seems to
impart repose to all it touches. The land-
scape no longer gleamed ; all its glowing
colours were revealed, except that its re-
moter features were still softened and united
in the midst of distance, whose sweet effect
was heightened to Emily by the dark ver-
dure of the pines and cypresses that over-
arched the fore-ground of the river.

The market people passing with their
boats to Venice, now formed a moving pic-
ture on the Brenta. Most of these had lit-
tle painted awnings, to shelter their owners
from the sun-beams, which, together with

the piles of fruits and (lowers, displayed be-
neath, and the tasteful simplicity of the pea-
sant girls, who watched the rural treasures,
rendered them gay and striking objects.
The swift movement of the boats down the
current, the quick glance of oars in the
water, and now and then the passing chorus
of peasants, who reclined under the sail of
their little bark, or the tones of some rustic
instrument, played by a girl, as she sat
near her sylvan cargo, heightened the ani-
mation and festivity of the scene.

When Montoni and M. Quesnel had join-
ed the ladies, the party left the partico for
the gardens, where the charming scenery
soon withdrew Emily's thoughts from pain-
ful objects. The majestic forms and rich
verdure of cypresses she had never seen so
perfect before ; groves of cedar, lemon, and
orange, the spiry clusters of the pine and
poplar, the luxuriant chesnut, and oriental
plane, threw all their pomp of shade over
these gardens ; while bowers of flowering
myrtle, and other spicy shrubs, mingled their
fragrance with that of flowers, whose vivid
and various colouring glowed with increased
effect beneath the contrasted umbrage of
the groves. The air also was continually
refreshed by rivulets, which, with more taste
than fashion, had been suffered to wander
among the green recesses.

Emily often lingered behind the party, tc
contemplate the distant landscape that
closed a vista, or that gleamed beneath the
dark foliage of the fore-ground ; — the spiral
summits of the mountains, touched with a
purple tint, broken and steep above, but
shelving gradually to their base ; the open
valley, marked by no former lines of art ;
and the tall groves of cypress, pine, and
poplar, sometimes embellished by a ruined
villa, whose broken columns appeared be-
tween the branches of a pine, that seemed
to droop over their fall.

From other parts of the gardens, the cha-
racter of the view was entirely changed, and
the fine solitary beauty of the landscape
shifted for the crowded features and varied
colouring of inhabitation.

The sun was now gaining fast upon the
sky, and the party quitted the gardens, and
retired to repose.

CHAP. XVII.

" And poor Misfortune feels the lash of Vice.

THOMSON.

Emily seized the first opportunity of
conversing alone with Monsieur Quesnel,
concerning La Vallee. His answers to her
inquiries were concise, and delivered with
the air of a man, who is conscious of pos-
sessing absolute power, and impatient of
hearing it questioned. He declared that the
disposal of the place was a necessary mea-
sure ; and that she might consider herself

104

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

indebted to his prudence for even the small
income that remained for her. " But, how-
ever," added he, " when this Venetian count
(I have forgot his name) marries you, your
present disagreeable state of dependence
will cease. As a relation to you, I rejoice
in the circumstance, which is so fortunate
for you, and, I may add, so unexpected by
your friends."

For some moments Emily was chilled into
silence by this speech ; and when she at-
tempted to undeceive him, concerning the
purport of the note she had enclosed in
Montoni's letter, he appeared to have some
private reason for disbelieving her assertion*
and, for a considerable time, persevered in
accusing her of capricious conduct. Being
at length, however, convinced* that she really
disliked Morano, and had positively rejected
his suit, his resentment was extravagant,
and he expressed it in terms equally pointed
and inhuman ; for, secretly flattered by the
prospect of a connexion with a nobleman,
whose title he had affected to forget, he was
incapable of feeling pity for whatever suf-
ferings of his niece might stand in the way
of his ambition.

Emily saw at once in his manner all the
difficulties that awaited her, and, though no
oppression could have power to make her
renounce Valancourt for Morano, her forti-
tude now trembled at an encounter with
the violent passions of her uncle.

She opposed his turbulence and indigna
(ion only by the mild dignity of a superior
mind * but the gentle firmness of her con
duct served to exasperate still more his re-
sentment, since it compelled him to feel his
Own inferiority, and, when he left her* he
declared, that, if she persisted in her folly*
both himself and Montoni would abandon
her to the contempt of the world.

The cahnness she had assumed in his pre-
sence failed Emily, when alone, and she
wept bitterly* and called frequently upon
the name of. her departed father, whose ad-
vice to her from his death-bed she then re-
membered. " Alas," said she, (< 1 do indeed
perceive how much more valuable is the
M length of fortitude than the grace of sen-
sibility, and I will also endeavour to fulfil
the promise I then made ; I will not indulge
in unavailing lamentation * but will try to
endure* with firmness, the oppression I can-
not elude."

Somewhat soothed by the consciousness of
performing a part of St. Auberfs last re-
quest, and of endeavouring to pursue the
conduct which he would have approved, she
overcame her tears* and when the company
met at dinner, had recovered her usual se-
renity of countenance.

T n the cool of the evening, the ladies took
the fresco along the bank of the Brenta in
Madame Quesners carriage. The state of

Emily's mind was in melancholy contrast
with the gay groups assembled beneath the
shades that overhung this enchanting stream.
Some were dancing under the trees, and
others reclining on the grass taking ices and
coffee, and calmly enjoying the effect of a
beautiful evening, on a luxuriant landscape.
Emily* when she looked at the snow-capf
Apennines, ascending in the distance*
thought of Montour's castle, and suffered
some tenor, lest he should convey her thi-
ther, for the purpose of enforcing her obe-
dience ; but the thought vanished, when
she considered, that she was as much in
his power at Venice as she could be else-
where.

It was moon-light before the party re-
turned to the villa, where supper was spread
in the airy hall, whkh had so much enchant-
ed Emily's fancy on the preceding night.
The ladies seated themselves hi the portico,
till M. Quesnel, Montoni, and other gentle-
men, should join them at table, and Emily
endeavoured to resign herself to the tran-
quillity of the hour. Presently a barge
stopped at the steps that led into the gar-
dens, and, soon after, she distinguished the
voices of Montoni and Quevnel, and then
that of Morano* who, in the next moment,
appeared. His compliments she received in
silence, and her cold air seemed at first to
discompose him ; but he soon recovered his
usual gaiety of manner* though the officious
kindness of M. and Madame Quesnel, Emily
perceived disgusted him. Such a degree of
attention she had scarcely believed could be
shown by M. Quesnel, for she had never be-
fore seen him otherwise than in the presence
of his inferiors or equals.

When she could retire to her own apart-
ment, her mind almost involuntarily dwelt
on the most probable means of prevailing
with the count to withdraw his suit, and to
her liberal mind none appeared more pro-
bable, than that of acknowledging to him a
prior attachment* and throwing herself upon
his generosity for a release. tVhen, how-
ever, on the following day, he renewed his
addresses, she shrunk from the adoption of
the plan she had formed. There was some-
thing so repugnant to her just pride, in
laying open the secret of her heart to such
a man as Morano* and in suing to him for
compassion, that she impatiently rejected
this design* and wondered that she could
have paused upon it for a moment. The
rejection of his suit she repeated in the most
decisive terms she could select, mingling
with it a severe censure of his conduct j
but, though the count appeared mortified
by this, he persevered in the most ardent
profesions of admiration, till he was inter-
rupted, an&JEmily released, by the presence
of Madame Quesnel.

During her stay at this pleasant villa,

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

\0b

'Emily was thus rendered miserable by the
assiduities of Morano, together with the
cruelly exerted authority of M. Quesnel
and Montoni, who, with her aunt, seemed
now more resolutely determined upon this
marriage than they had even appeared to
be at Venice. M. Quesnel, finding that
both argument and menace were ineffectual
in enforcing an immediate conclusion to it,
at length relinquished his endeavours^ and
trusted to the power of Montoni and to the
course of events at Venice. Emily, indeed,
looked to Venice with hope* for there she
would be relieved in some measure from the
persecution of Morano, who would no longer
be an inhabitant of the same house with
herself, and from that of Montoni, whose
engagements would not permit him to be
continually at home. But, amidst the pres-
sure of her own misfortunes, she did not
forget those of poor Theresa, for whom she
pleaded with courageous tenderness to
Quesnel, who promised^ in slight and gene-
ral terms, that she should not be forgotten.

Montoni, in a long conversation with
M. Quesnel, arranged the plan to be pur-
sued respecting Emily, and M. Quesnel
proposed to be at Venice^ as soon as he
should be informed that the nuptials were
concluded.

It was new to Emily to part with any
person, with whom she was connected, with-
out feelings of regret ; the moment, however,
iu which she took leave of M. and Madame
Quesnel, was, perhaps, the only satisfactory
one she had known in their presence.

Morano returned in Montoni's barge, and
Emily, as she watched her gradual approach
to that magic city, saw at her side the only
person who occasioned her to view it with
less than perfect delight. They arrived
there about midnight, when Emily was re-
leased from the presence of the count, who,
with Montoni, went to a Casino and she was
suffered to retire to her own' apartment.

On the following day, Montoni, in a short
conversation, which he held with Emily, in-
formed her, that he would no longer be
trifled with, and that, since her marriage
with the count would be so highly advan-
tageous to her, that folly only could object
to it, and folly of such extent as was inca-
pable of conviction, it should be celebrated
without further delay, and, if that was
necessary, without her consent.

Emily, who had hitherto tried remon-
strance, had now recourse to supplication,
•for distress prevented her from foreseeing
that, with a man of Montoni's disposition,
supplication would be equally useless. She
afterwards inquired by what right he exerted
♦his unlimited authority over her ? a question
which her better judgment would have with-
held her, in a calmer moment, from making,

since it could ava*l her nothing, and would
afford Montoni another opportunity of
triumphing over her defenceless Condition.

" By what right !" cried Montoni, with a
malicious smile, a by the right of my will ;
if you can elude that, I will not inquire by
what right you do so. I now remind you,
for the last time, that you are a stranger,
in a foreign country, and that it is your
interest to make me your friend 5 you know
the means ; if you compel me to become
your enemy — I will venture to tell you that
the punishment shall exceed your expecta-
tion. You may know / am not to be trifled
with."

Emily continued^ for some time after
Montoni had left her, in a state of despair,
or rather of stupefaction 5 a consciousness
of misery was all that remained in her
mind. In this situation Madame Montoni
found her* at the sound of whose voice
Emily looked up, and her aunt,- somewhat
softened by the expression of despair, that
fixed her countenance, spoke in a manner
more kind than she had ever yet done.
Emily's heart was touched ; she shed tears,
and, after weeping for some time, recovered
sufficient composure to speak on the subject
of her distress, and to endeavour to interest
Madame Montoni in her behalf. But
though the compassion of her aunt had been
surprised, her ambition was not to be
overcome, and her present object was to be
the auut of a countess. Emily's efforts,
therefore, were as unsuccessful as they had
been with Montoni, and she withdrew to her
apartment to think and weep alone. How
often did she remember the parting scene
with Valancourt, and wish, that the Italian
had mentioned Montoni's character with less
reserve! When her mind, however, had
recovered from the first shock of this beha
viour, she considered, that it would be
impossible for him to compel her all ia net
with Morano, if she persisted in refusing to
repeat any part of the marriage ceremony \
and she persevered in her resolution to await
Montoni's threatened vengeance rather than
give herself for life to a man whom she
must have despised for his present conduct,
had she never even loved Valancourt : yet
she trembled at the revenge she thus re-
solved to brave.

An affair, however, soon after occurred,
which somewhat called off Moutoni's atten-
tion from Emily. The mysterious visits of
Orsino were renewed with more frequency
since the return of the former to Venice.
There were others, also, besides Orsino,
admitted to these midnight councils, and
among them Cavigni and Verezzi. Montoni
became more reserved and austere in his
manner than ever ; and Emily, if her own
interests had not made her regardless o'

106

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLfHO.

his, might have perceived that something
extraordinary was working in his mind.

One night, on which a council was not
neld, Orsino came in great agitation of
spirits, and dispatched his confidential ser-
vant to Montoni, who was at a Casino, de-
siring that he would return home imme-
diately; but charging the servant not to
mention his name. Montoni obeyed the
summons, and, on meeting Orsino, was
informed of the circumstances that occa-
sioned his visit and his visible alarm, with
some of which, however, he was already ac-
quainted.

A Venetian nobleman, who had on a late
occasion provoked the hatred of Orsino,
had been waylaid and poignarded by hired
assassins ; and as the murdered person was
of the first connexions, the Senate had taken
up the affair. One of the assassins, was now
apprehended, who had confessed that Orsino
was his employer in the atrocious deed ; and
the latter, informed of his danger, had now
come to Montoni to consult on the measures
necessary to favour his escape. He knew
that, at this time, the officers of the police
were upon the watch for him all over the
city ; to leave it at present, therefore, was
impracticable, and Montoni consented to
secrete him for a few days, till the vigilance
of justice should relax, and then to assist
him in quitting Venice. He knew the dan-
ger he himself incurred by permitting
Orsino to remain in his house ; but such was
the nature of his obligations to this man,
that he did not think it prudent to refuse
him an asylum.

Such was the person whom Montoni ad-
mitted to his confidence, and for whom he
felt as much friendship as was compatible
with his character.

While Orsino remained concealed in his
house, Montoni was unwilling to attract
public observation by the nuptials of Count
Morano; but this obstacle was, in a few
days, overcome by the departure of his
criminal visitor, and he then informed Emily
that her marriage was to be celebrated on
the following morning. To her repeated
assurances that it should not jtake place, he
replied by a malignant smile ; and, telling
her that the count and a priest would be at
his house early in the morning, he advised
her no further to dare his resentment by
opposition to his will and to her own inte-
rests. " I am now going out for the evening,"
said he ; " remember that I shall give your
aand to Count Morano in the morning."
Emily having, ever since his late threats,
expected that her trials would at length
arrive to this crisis, was less shocked by the
declaration than she otherwise would have
been, and she endeavoured to support her-
self by a belief that the marriage could not
be valid, so long as she refused before the

priest to repeat any part of the cere-
mony. Yet, as the moment of trial ap-
proached, her long harassed spirits shrunk
almost equally from the encounter of his
vengeance, and from the hand of Count
Morano. She was not even perfectly cer-
tain of the consequence of her steady re-
fusal at the altar, and she trembled, more
than ever, at the power of Montoni, which
seemed unlimited as his will, for she saw
that he would not scruple to transgress any
law, if, by so doing, he could accomplish
his project.

While her mind was thus suffering, she
was informed that Morano asked permission
to see her, and the servant had scarcely de-
parted with an excuse, before she repenttd
that she had sent one. In the next moment,
reverting to her former design, and deter-
mining to try whether expostulation and
entreaty would not succeed, where a refusal
and a just disdain had failed, she recalled
the servant, and, sending a different mes-
sage, prepared to go down to the count.

The dignity and assumed composure with
which she met him, and the kind of pensive
resignation that softened her countenance,
were circumstances not likely to induce him
to relinquish her, serving as they did, to
heighten a passion which had already intoxi-
cated his judgment. He listened to all she
said with an appearance of complacency
and of a wish to oblige her ; but his reso-
lution remained invariably the same, and he
endeavoured to win her admiration by every
insinuating art he so well knew how to
practise. Being, at length, assured that she
had nothing to hope from his justice, she
repeated, in a solemn manner, her absolute
rejection of his suit, and quitted him with
an assurance that her refusal would be
effectually maintained against every cir-
cumstance that could be imagined for sub-
duing it. A just pride had restrained her
tears in his presence, but now they flowed
from the fulness of her heart. She often
called upon the name of her late father, and
often dwelt with unutterable anguish on the
idea of Valancourt.

She did not go down* to supper, but re-
mained alone in her apartment, sometimes
yielding to the influence of grief and terror,
and, at others, endeavouring to fortify her
mind against them, and to prepare herself
to meet, with composed courage, the scene
of the following morning, when all the
stratagem of Morano and the violence of
Montoni would be united against her.

The evening was far advanced, when
Madame Montoni came to her chamber with
some bridal ornaments, which the count had
sent to Emily. She had, this day, pur-
posely avoided her niece ; perhaps, because
her usual insensibility failed her, and. she
feared to trust herself with a view of Emily's

THE MYSTERIES OF UEOL1 1C

10*

distress ; or possibly, though her conscience
was seldom audible, it now reproached her
with her conduct to her brother's orphan
child, whose happiness had been entrusted
to her care by a dying father.

Emily could not look at these presents,
and made a last, though almost hopeless,
effort to interest the compassion of Madame
Montoni, who, if she did feel any degree of
pity or remorse, successfully concealed it,
and reproached her niece with folly in being
miserable concerning a marriage which
ought only to make her happy. " I am
sure," said she, " if 1 was unmarried, and
the count had proposed to me, I should
have been flattered by the distinction : and
if I should have been so, i am sure, niece,
you, who have no fortune, ought to feel
yourself highly honoured, and show a proper
gratitude and humility towards the count
for his condescension. I am often surprised,
I must own, to observe how humble he de-
ports himself to you, notwithstanding the
haughty airs you give yourself \ I wonder
he has patience to humour you so : if I was
he, I know, I should often be ready to re-
prehend you, and make you know yourself a
little better. I would not have flattered
you, I can tell you, for it is this absurd
flattery that makes you fancy yourself 4n° so
much consequence, that you think nobody
can deserve you ; and T often tell the count
so, for 1 have no patience to hear him pay
you such extravagant compliments, which
you believe every word of !"

"Your patience, madam, cannot suffer
more cruelly, on such occasions, than my
own," said Emily.

" O ! that is all mere affectation," rejoined
her aunt. " I know that his flattery delights
you, and makes you so vain, that you think
you may have the whole world at your feet.
But you are very much mistaken ; I can
assure you, niece, you will not meet with
many such suitors as the count: every other
person would have turned upon his heel, and
left you to repent at your leisure, long ago."

"O that the count had resembled every
other person, then!" said Emily, with a
heavy sigh. ^

" It is happy for you that he does not,"
rejoined Madame Montoni ; '* and what I
am now saying is from pure kindness. I
am endeavouring to convince you of your
good fortune, and to persuade you to submit
to necessity with a good grace. It is nothing
to me, you know, whether you like this mar-
riage or not, for it must be ; what I say,
therefore, is from pure kindness. I wish to
see you happy, and it is your own fault if
you are not so. I would ask you, now, seri-
ously and calmly, what kind of a match you
can expect, since a count cannot content
your ambition !"

" I have no ambition whatever madam,"

replied Emily ; " my only wish is to remain
in my present station."

" O ! that is speaking quite from the pur-
pose," said her aunt ; " I see you are still
thinking of Mons. Valancourt. Pray get
rid of all those fantastic notions about love
and Vhis ridiculous pride, and be something
like a reasonable creature. But, however,
this is nothing to the purpose — for your
marriage with the count takes place to-
morrow, you know, whether you approve it
or not. The count will be trifled with no
longer."

Emily made no attempt to reply to this
curious speech ; she felt it would be mean,
and she knew it would be useless. Madame
Montoni laid the count's presents upon the
table, on which Emily was leaning, and then,
desiring she would be ready early in the
morning, bade her good-night. " Good-
night, madam," said Emily, with a deep
sigh, as the door closed upon her aunt, and
she was left once more to her own sad re-
flections. For some time she sat so lost in
thought, as to be wholly unconscious where
she was ; at length raising her head, and
looking round the room, its glooms and
profound stillness awed her. She fixed her
eyes on the door through which her aunt
had disappeared, and listened anxiously for
some sound that might relieve the deep de-
jection of her spirits; but it was past mid-
night, and all thefamily, except the servant,
Mho sat up for Montoni, had retired to bed.
Her mind, long harassed by distress, now
yielded to imaginary terrors ; she trembled
to look into the obscurity of her spacious
chamber, and feared she knew not what ; a
state of mind which continued so long, that
she would have called up Annette, her aunt's
woman, had her fears permitted her* to rise
from her chair and to cross the apartment.

These melancholy illusions at length began
to disperse, and she retired to her bed, not
to sleep, for that was scarcely possible, but
to try, at least, to quiet her disturbed fancy,
and to collect strength of spirits sufficient
to bear her through the scene of the ap-
proaching morning.

CHAP. XVIII.

" Dark power ! with shaddring-, meek submit tea

thought,
Be mine to read the visions old
Which thy awak'ning bards have told,
And, lest they meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true."

COLLlNS's " Ode to Fear."

Emily was recalled from a kind of slum-
ber, into which she had at length sunk, by a
quick knocking at her chamber \ she started
up in terror. Montoni and Count Morano
instantly came to her mind ; but having lis-
tened in silence for some time, and recognis-
ing the voice of Annette, she ventured to
open the door. " What brings you hither

I OS

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOJLPHO.

so early ?" said Emily, trembling excessively.

"Dear ma'amselle!" said Annette, " do
not look so pale. 1 am quite frightened to
see you. Here is a fine bustle below stairs,
all the servants running to and fro, and none
of them fast enough ! Here's a bustle, indeed,
all of a sudden, and nobody knows for
what!"

" Who is below, besides them ?" said
Emily : « Annette, do not trifle with me."

" Not for the world, ma'amselle, I would
not trifle for the world : but one cannot help
making one's remarks : and there is the
signor in such a bustle, as I never saw him
before: and he has sent me to tell you,
ma'am, to get ready immediately."

" Good God, support me !" cried Emily,
almost fainting ; Count Morano is below
then !"

" No, ma'amselle, he is not below, that I
know of," replied Annette ; " only his
Excellenza sent me to desire you would get
ready directly to leave Venice, for that the
gondolas would be at the steps of the canal
in a few minutes : but 1 must hurry back to
my lady who is just at her wits' end, and
knows not which way to turn for haste."

" Explain, Annette, explain the meauing
of all this before you go," said Emily, so
overcome with surprise and timid hope that
she had scarcely breath to speak.

" Nay, ma'amselle, that is more than I
can do. I only know that the signor is just
come home in a very ill humour ; that he
has had us all called out of our beds, and
tells us we are all to leave Venice immedi-
ately."

" Is Count Morano to go with the signor?"
said Emily," and whither are we going ?"

" I know neither, ma'am, for certain ; but
I heard Ludovico say something about
going, after we got to Tcrra-Firma, to the
Manor's castle, among some mountains that
lie talked of."

" The Apennines !" said Emily, eagerly.
« O ! tl en I have little to hope ?"

" That is the very place, ma'am. But
cheer up, and do not take it so much to
heart, and think what a little time you have
to get ready in, and how impatient the
signor is. Holy St. Mark ! I be*r the oars
on the canal j and now they tome nearer,
and now they are dashing at the steps below ;
it is the gondola, sure enough."

Annette hastened from the room *, and
Emily prepared for this unexpected flight,
not perceiving that any change in her situ-
ation could possibly be for the worse. She
had scarcely thrown her books and clothes
into her travelling trunk, when, receiving a
second summons, she went down to her
aunt's dressing-room, where she found Mon-
t ui impatiently reproving his wife for delay.
He went out, soon after, to give some fur-
ther orders to his people, and Emily then

inquired the occasion of this hasty Journey j
but her aunt appeared to be as ignorant as
herself, and to undertake the journey with
more reluctance.

The family at length embarked, but
neither Count Morano, nor Cavigni, was of
the party. Somewhat revived by observing
this, E,mily, when the gondolier i dashed their
oars in the water, and put off from the steps
of the portico, felt like a criminal, who re-
ceives a short reprievsef Her heart beat yet '
lighter, when they^eitferged from the canal
into the ocean, and lighter still, when they
skimmed past the grails of St. Mark, without
having stopped to take up Count Morano.

The dawn now began to tint the horizon,
and to break upon the shores of the Adriatic.
Emily did not venture to ask any questions
of Montoni, who sat, for some time, in
gloomy silence, and then rolled himself up
in his cloak, as if to sleep, while Madame
Montoni did the same 5 but Emily, who
could not sleeps undrew one of the little
curtains of the gondola, and looked out
upon the sea. The rising dawn now en-*
lightened the mountain tops of Friuli, but
their lower sides, and the distant waves
that rolled at their feet, were still in deep
shadow. Emily, sunk in tranquil melan-
choly, watched the strengthening light
spreading upon the ocean, showing pro-
gressively Venice with her islets, and the
shores of Italy, along which boats with their
pointed latin sails began to move.

The gondolieri were frequently hailed, at
this early hour, by the market people, as
they glided by towards Venice, and the
Lagune soon displayed a gay scene of innu*
merable little barks, passing from Terra-
Firma with provisions. Emily gave a last
look to that splendid city, but her mind was
then occupied by considering the probable
events that awaited her, in the scenes to
which she was removing, and with conjec-
tures concerning the motive of this sudden
journey. It appeared, upon calmer consi-
deration, that Montoni was removing her
to his secluded castle, because he could
there, with more probability of success,
attempt to terrify her into obedience ; or
that, should its gloomy and sequestered
scenes fail of this effect, her forced marri-
age with the count could there be solem-
nized with the secrecy which was necessary
to the honour of Montoni. The little spirit
which this reprieve had recalled now began
to fail, and, when Emily reached the shore,
her mind had sunk into all its foviner
depression.

Montoni did not embark on the Brenta-
but pursued his way in carriages across Hie
country, towards the Apennine ; during t
which journey his manner to Emily was so
particularly severe, tfcat this alone would
have confirmed her late conjecture, had any

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

/

lOfr

such confirmation been necessary. Her
senses were now dead to the beautiful
country through which she travelled. Some-
times she was compelled to smile at the
naivete of Annette, in her remarks on what
she saw, and sometimes to sigh, as a scene
of peculiar beauty recalled Valancourt to
her thoughts, who was indeed seldom
absent from them, and of whom she could
never hope to hear in the split ude to which
she was hastening.

At length the travellers began to ascend
among the Apennines. The immense pine
forests, which at that perjod overhung these
mountains, and between which the road
wound, excluded all view but of the cliffs
aspiring above, except that, now and then,
an opening through the dark woods allowed
the eye a momentary glimpse of the country
below. The gloom of these shades, their
solitary ailence, except when the breeze
swept over their summits, the tremendous
precipices of the mountains that came par-
tially to the eye, each assisted to raise the
solemnity of Emily's feelings into awe . she
saw only images of gloomy grandeur, or of
dreadful sublimity, around her; other
images, equally gloomy, and equally ter-
rible, gleamed on her imagination. She
was going she scarcely knew whither, under
the dominion of a person from whose arbi-
trary disposition she had already suffered so
much, to marry, perhaps, a man who pos-
sessed neither her affection nor esteem ; \jt
to endure, beyond the hope of succour,
whatever punishment revenge, and that
Italian revenge, might dictate. The more
she considered what might be the motive of
the journey, the more she became convinced
that it was for the purpose of concluding
her nuptials with Count Morano, with the
secrecy which her resolute resistance had
made necessary to the honour, if not to the
iafety, of Montoni. From the deep solitudes
into which she was immerging, and from
the gloomy castle, of which she had heard
some mysterious hints, her sick heart re-
coiled in despair, and she experienced,
that, though her mind was already occupied
by peculiar distress, it was still alive to the
influence of new and local circumstances ;
why else did she shudder at the image of
this desolate castle?

As the travellers still ascended among
the pine forests, steep rose over steep, the
mountains seemed to multiply as they went,
and what was the summit of one eminence,
proved to be only the base of another. At
length they reached a little plain, where
the drivers stopped to rest the mules, whence
a scene of such extent and magnificence
opened below, as drew even from Madame
Montoni a note of admiration. Emily lost,
for a moment, her sorrows in the immensity
of nature Beyond the amphitheatre of

mountains that stretched below, whose tops
appeared as numerous almost as the waves
of the sea, and whose feet were concealed
by the forests, extended the Campagna of
Italy, where cities and rivers and woods,
and all the glow of cultivation, were mingled
in gay confusion. The Adriatic bounded
the horizon, into which the Po and the
Brenta, after winding through the whole
extent of the landscape, poured their fruit-
ful waves. Emily gazed long on the splen-
dours of the world she was quitting, of
which the whole magnificence seemed thus
given to her sight only to increase her
regret on leaving it ; for her, Valancourt
alone was in that world ; to him alone her
heart turned, and for him alone fell her
bitter tears.

From this sublime scene the travellers
continued to ascend among the pines, till
they entered a narrow pass of the moun-
tains, which shut out every feature of the
distant country, and in its stead exhibited
only tremendous crags, impending over
the road, where no vestige of humanity, or
even of vegetation, appeared, except here
and there the trunk and scathed branches of
an oak, that hung nearly headlong from the
rock, into which its strong roots had fasten-
ed. This pass, which led into the heart of
the Apennine, at length opened to day, and
a scene of mountains stretched in long per-
spective, as wild as any the travellers had
yet passed. Still vast pine forests hung
upon^heir base, and crowned the ridgy pre-
cipice that rose perpendicularly from the
vale, while above the rolling' mists caught
the sun-beams, and touched their cliffs
with all the magical colouring of light and
shade. The scene4 seemed perpetually
changing, and its features to assume new
forms, as the winding road brought them to
the eye in different attitudes; while the
shifting vapours, now partially concealing
their minuter beauties, and now illumina -
ting them with splendid tints, assisted the
illusions of the sight.

Though the deep vallies between these
mountains, were, for the most part, clothed
with pines, sometimes an abrupt opening
presented a perspective of only barren rocks,
with a cataract flashing from their summit
among broken cliffs, till its waters, reaching
the bottom, foamed along with louder fury;
and sometimes pastoral scenes exhibited
their " green delights" in the narrow vales,
smiling amid surrounding horror. There
herds and flocks of goats and sheep, brow-
sing under the shade of hanging woods, and
the shepherd's little cabin, reared on the
margin of a clear stream, presented a sweet
picture of repose.

Wild and romantic as were these scenes,
their character had far less of the sublime
than had those of the Alps, which guard

A^%,^^%

the entrance of Italy. Emily was often ele-
vated, but seldom felt those emotions of
indescribable awe, which she had so conti-
nually experienced in her passage over the
Alps.

Towards the close of day, the road wound

into a deep valley. Mountains, whose

shaggy steeps appeared to be inaccessible,

almost surrounded it. To the east, a vista

opened, and exhibited the Apennines in their

darkest horrors ; and the long perspective of

retiring summits rising over each other,

their ridges clothed with pines, exhibited a

stronger image of grandeur than any that

Emily had yet seen. The sun had just sunk

below the top of the mountains she was

descending, whose long shadow stretched

athwart the valley, but his sloping rays,

shooting through an opening of the cliffs,

touched with a yellow gleam the summits

of the forest that hung upon the opposite

steeps, and streamed in full splendour upon

the toners and battlements of a castle that

spread its extensive ramparts along the

brow of a precipice above. The splendour

of these illumined objects was heightened

by the contrasted shade which involved the

valley below.

" There," said Montoni,* speaking for the
first time in several hours, " is Udolpho."

Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon
the castle, which she understood to be
Montoni's ; for, though it was now lighted
up by the setting sun, the gothic greatness
of its features, and its mouldering walls of
dark grey stone, rendered it a gloomy and
sublime object. As she gazed, the light
died away on its walls, leaving a melancholy

purple tint, which spread deeper and deep-
er, as the thin vapour crept up the moun-
tain, while the battlements above were still
tipped with splendour. From those too the
rays soon faded, and the whole edifice was
invested with the solemn duskiness of even-
ing. Silent, lonely, and sublime, it seemed
to stand the sovereign of the scene, and to
frown defiance on all who dared to invade
its solitary reign. As the twilight deepen-
ed, its features became more awful in
obscurity, and Emily continued to gaze,
till its clustering towers were alone seen
rising over the tops of the woods, beneath
whose thick shade the carriages soon after
began to ascend.

! The extent and darkness of these tall
k woods awakened terrific images in her
! mind, and she almost expected to see ban-
ditti start up from under the trees. At
length the carriages emerged upon a heathy
rock, and soon after reached the castle
gates, where the deep tone of the portal
bell, which was struck upon to give notice
of their arrival, increased the fearful emo-
tions that had assailed Emily. m While they
waited till the servant within should come to
open the gates, she anxiously surveyed the
edifice 5 but the gloom that overspread it,
allowed her to distinguish little more than
a part of its outline, with the massy wall?
of the ramparts, and to know that it was^
vast, ancient, and dreary. From the parts
she saw, she judged of the heavy strength
and extent of the whole. The gateway
before her, leading into the courts, was of
gigantic size, and was defended by two
round towers, crowned by overJianging tur

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

11!

rets embattled, where instead of banners,
now waved long grass and wild plants, that
had taken root among the mouldering
stones, and which seemed to sigh, as the
breeze rolled past, over the desolation around
them. The towers were united by a curtain,
pierced and embattled also, below which
appeared the pointed arch of an huge port-
cullis, surmounting the gates : from these, the
walls of the ramparts extended to other
towers, overlooking the precipice, whose
shattered outline, appearing on a gleam that
lingered in the west, told of the ravages of
war. — Beyond these all was lost in the ob-
scurity of evening.

While Emily gazed with awe upon the
scene, footsteps were heard within the gates,
and the undrawing of bolts ; after which an
ancient servant of the castle appeared, for-
cing back the huge folds of the portal to
admit his lord. As the carriage-wheels rol-
led heavily under the portcullis, Emily's
heart sunk, and she seemed as if she was
going into her prison-; the gloomy court,
into which she passed, served to confirm the
idea, and her imagination, ever awake to
circumstance, suggested even more terrors
than her reason could justify.

Another gate delivered them into the se-
cond court, grass-grown, and more wild than
the first, where, as she surveyed through the
twilight its desolation — its lofty walls, over-
topt with briony moss, and nightshade, and
the embattled towers that rose above — long
suffering and murder came to her thoughts,
One of those instantaneous and unaccount-
able convictions, which sometimes conquer
even strong minds, impressed her with its
horror. The seutiment was not diminished,
when she entered an extensive gothick hall,
obscured by the gloom of evening, which a
light, glimmering at a distance through a
long perspective of arches, only rendered
more striking. As a servant brought the
lamp nearer, partial gleams fell upon the
pillars and the pointed arches, forming a
strong contrast with their shadows that
stretched along the pavement and the walls.
The sudden journey of Montoni had pre-
vented his people from making any other
preparations for his reception than could be
had in the short interval since the arrival of
the servant who had been sent forward from
Venice ; and thi§, in some measure, may ac-
count for the air of extreme desolation that
every where appeared.

The servant, who came to light Montoni,
bowed in silence, and the muscles of his
countenance relaxed with no symptom of joy.
— Montoni noticed the salutation by a slight
motion of his hand, and passed on, while
his lady, following, and looking round with
a degree of surprise and discontent, which
she seemed fearful of expressing, and Emily,
surveying the extent and grandeur of the hall

in timid wonder, approached a marble stair-
case. The arches here opened to a lofty
vault, from the centre of which hung a
tripod lamp, which a servant was hastily
lighting-, and the rich fret-work of the roof;
a corridor, leading into several upper apart-
ments, and a painted window, stretching
nearly from the pavement to the ceiling of
the hall, became gradually visible.

Having crossed the foot of the staircase
.and passed, through an ante-room, they en-
tered a spacious apartment, whose walls,
wainscoted with black larch-wood, the
growth of the neighbouring mountains, were
scarcely distinguishable from darkness itself.
" Bring more light," said Montoni, as he
entered. The servant, setting down his
lamp, was withdrawing to obey him, when
Madame Montoni, observing that the even-
ing air of this mountainous region was cold,
and that she should like a fire, Montoni or-
dered that wood should be brought.

While he paced the room with thoughtful
steps, and Madame Montoni sat silently on
a couch at the upper end of it, waiting till
the servant returned, Emily was observing
the singular solemnity and desolation of the
apartment, viewed, as it now was, by the
glimmer of the. single lamp, placed near a
large Venetian mirror, that duskily reflected
the scene, with the tall figure of Montoni
passing slowly along, his arms folded, and
his countenance shaded by the plume that
waved in his hat.

From the cou temptation of this scene,
Emily's mind proceeded to the apprehension
of what she might suffer in it, till the re-
membrance of Valancourt, far, far distant !
came to her heart, and softened it into sor-
row. A heavy sigh escaped her : but, trying
to conceal her tears, she walked away to" one
of the high" windows that opened upon the
ramparts, below which spread the woods she
had passed in her approach to the castle.
But the nightshade sat deeply on the moun-
tains beyond, and their indented outline
alone could be faintly traced on the horizon,
where a red streak yet glimmered in the
west. The valley between, was sunk in
darkness.

The scene within, upon which Emily turn-
ed on the opening of the door, was scarcely-
less gloomy. The old servant who had re-
ceived them at the gates now entered,
bending under a load of pine-branches, while
two of Montoni's Venetian servants followed
with lights.

" Your Excellenza is welcome to the
castle," said the old man, as he raised him-
self from the hearth, where he had laid the
wood : " it has been a lonely place a long
while ; but you will excuse it, signor, know,
ing we had but short notice. It is near two
years, come next feast of St. Mark, since your
Excellenza was within these walls."

U2

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

u You have a goou memory, old Carlo,"
«aid Montoni •, u it is there about : and how
hast thou contrived to live so long ?*

" A-well-a-day, sir, with much ado ; the
cold winds that blow through the castle in
winter are almost too much for me ; and I
thought sometimes of asking your Excel-
lenza to let me leave the mountains, and go
down into the lowlands. But I don't know
how it is — I am loth to quit these old walls
I have lived in so long."

" Well, how have you gone on in the
castle, since I left it ?" said Montoni.

" Why much as usual, signor, only it
wants a good deal of repairing. There is
the north tower — some of the battlements
have tumbled down, and had liked one day
to have knocked my poor wife (God rest her
soul !) on the head. Your Excellenza must

know "

" Well, but the repairs," interrupted Mon-
toni.

" Ay, the repairs," said Carlo : " a part of
the roof of the great hall has fallen in, and
all the winds from the mountains rushed
through it last winter, and whistled through
the whole castle so, that there was no keep-
ing one's self warm, be where one would.
There my wife and I used to sit shivering
over a great fire in one corner of the little

hall, ready to die with cold, and "

" But there are no more repairs wanted,"
said Montoni, impatiently.

" O Lord your Excellenza, yes— the Mall
of the rampart has tumbled down in three
places ; then, the stairs, that lead to the west
gallery, have been a long time so bad, that
it is dangerous to go up them ; and the pas-
sage leading to the great oak chamber, that
overhangs the north rampart — one night last
winter, I ventured to go there by myself, and

your Excellenza "

" Well, well, enough of this," said Montoni,
with quickness : " I will talk more with thee
to morrow."

The fire was now lighted; .Carlo swept
the hearth, placed chairs, wiped the dust
from a large marble table that stood near it,
and then left the room.

Montoni and his family drew round the
fire. Madame Montoni made several at-
tempts at conversation, but his sullen
answers repulsed her, while Emily sat en-
deavouring to acquire courage enough to
speak to him. At length, in a tremulous
voice, she said, " May I ask, sir, the motive
of this sudden journey ?" — After a long
pause, she recovered sufficient courage to
repeat the question.

" It does not suit me to answer inquiries,"
said Montoni, " nor does it become you to
make them ; time may unfold them all : but
I desire I may be no further harassed, and I
recommend it to you to retire to your cham-
ber, and to endeavour to adopt a more ra-

tional conduct than that of yielding to fan-
cies, and to a sensibility, which, to call
it by the gentlest name, is only a weak-
ness."

Emily rose to withdraw. " Good night,
madame," said she to her aunt, with an
assumed composure, that could not disguise
her emotion.

"Good night, my dear," said Madame
Montoni, in a tone of kindness, which her
niece had never before heard from her ; and
the unexpected endearment brought tears to
Emily's eyes. She curtsied to Montoni, and
was retiring : " But you do not know the
way to your chamber," said her aunt. Mon-
toni called the servant, who waited in the
anti-room, and bade him send Madame
Montoni's woman, with whom, in a few
minutes, Emily withdrew.

" Do you know which is my room r" said
she to Annette, as they crossed the hall.

" Yes, I believe I do, ma'amselle ; but
this is such a strange rambling place! I
have been lost in it already : they call it the
double chamber, over the south rampart,
and I went up this great staircase to it.
My lady's room is at the other end of tlie
castle."

Emily ascended the marble staircase, and
came to the corridor, as they passed through
which Annette resumed her chat : — a What
a wild lonely place this is, ma'am ! I shall be
quite frightened to live in it. How often,
and often have I wished myself in France
again ! I little thought when I came with
my lady to see the world, that I should ever
be shut up in such a place as this, or I
would never have left my own country .
This way, ma'amselle, down this turning.
I can almost believe in giants again, and
such like, for this is just like one of their
castles ; and some night or other, I suppose,
I shall see fairies too, hopping about in that
great old hall, that looks more like a church,
with its huge pillars, than any thing else."

" Yes," said Emily, smiling, and glad to
escape from more serious thought, " if we
come to the corridor, about midnight, and
look down into the hall, we shall certainly
see it illuminated with a thousand lamps,
and the fairies tripping in gay circles to the
sound of delicious music ; for it is in such
places as this, you know, that they come to
hold their revels. But I am afraid, Annette,
you will uot be able to pay the necessary
penance for such a sight : and if once they
hear your voice, the whole scene will vanish
in an instant."

u O! if you will bear me company,
ma'amselle, I will come to the corridor,
this very night, and I promise you I will
hold my tongue ; it shall not be my fault
if the show vanishes. — But do you think
they will come?" -

" I cannot promise that with certainty,

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

113

but I will venture to say, it will not be your
fault if the enchantment should vanish.1*

" Well, ma'amselle, that is saying more
than I expected of you ; but I am not so
much afraid of fairies as of ghosts, and they
say there are a plentiful many of them about
the castle: now I should be frightened to
death if I should chance to see any of them.
But hush ! ma'amselle, walk softly ! I have
thought, several times, something passed
by me."

" Ridiculous !" said Emily ; " you must
not indulge such fancies."

" O ma'am ! they are not fancies, for
aught I know : Benedetto says these dismal
galleries and halls are fit for nothing but
ghosts to live in ; and I verily believe, if
I live long in them, I shall turn to one
myself!"

" I hope," said Emily, " you will not
suffer Signor Montoni to hear of these weak
fears ; they would highly displease him."

" What, you know then, ma'amselle, all
about it !" rejoined Annette. " No, no, I
do know better than to do so; though, if
the signor can sleep sound, nobody else in
the castle has any right to lie awake, I am
sure." Emily did not appear to notice this
remark.

" Down this passage, ma'amselle; this
leads to a back staircase. O ! if I see any
thing, I shall be frightened out of my
wits."

" That will scarcely be possible," said
Emily, smiling, as she followed the winding
of the passage, which opened into another
gallery ; and then Annette, perceiving that
she had missed her way, while she had been
so eloquently haranguing on ghosts and
fairies, wandered about through other pas-
sages and galleries, till at length, frightened
by their intricacies and desolation, she
called aloud for assistance : but they were
beyond the hearing of the servants, who
were on the other side of the castle, and
Emily now opened the door of a chamber on
the left

"O! do not go in there, ma'amselle,"
said Annette, " you will only lose yourself
further."

" Bring the light forward," said Emily,
4i we may possibly find our way through
these rooms"

Annette stood at the door, in an attitude
of hesitation, with the light held up to show
the chamber, but the feeble rays spread
through not half of it. " Why do you hesi-
tate ? said Emily ; * let me see whither this
room leads."

Annette advanced reluctantly. It opened
into a suite of spacious and ancient apart-
ments, some of which were hung with tapes-
try, and others wainscoted with cedar and
black larch-wood. What furniture there
was, seemed to be almost as old as the rooms,

and retained an appearance of grandeur
though covered with dust, and dropping to
pieces with the damps, and with age.

" How cold these rooms are, ma'amselle !'*
said Annette : " nobody has lived in them
for many, many years, they say. Do let
us go."

" They may open upon the great staircase,
perhaps," said Emily, passing on till she
came to a chamber hung with pictures, and
took the light to examine that of a soldier
on horseback in a field of battle. — He was
darting his spear upon a man who lay under
the feet of the horse, and who held up one
hand in a supplicating attitude. The sol-
dier, whose beaver was up, regarded him
with a look of vengeance, and the counte-
nance, with that expression, struck Emily
as resembling Montoni. She shuddered, and
turned from it. Passing the light hastily
over several other pictures, she came to one
concealed by a veil of black silk. The sin-
gularity of the circumstance struck her, and
she stopped before it, wishing to remove the
veil, and examine what could thus carefully
be concealed, but somewhat wanting cou-
rage. " Holy Virgin * what can this mean ?"
exclaimed Annette. "This is surely the
picture they told me of at Venice."

" What picture P' said Emily. « Why a
picture — a picture," replied Annette, hesi-
tatingly— <l but I never could make out ex-
actly what it was about, either."

" Remove the veil, Annette."

" What ! I, ma'amselle !-— I J not for the
world !" Emily, turning round, saw Annette's
countenance grow pale. "And, pray, what
have you heard of this picture, to terrify
you so, my good girl ?" said she. " Nothing,
ma'amselle : I have heard nothing, only let
us find our way out."

u Certainly : but I wish first to examine
the picture ; take the light, Annette, while I
lift the veil." Annette took the light, and
immediately walked away with it, disre-
garding Emily's calls to stay, who not
choosing to be left alone in the dark cham-
ber, at length followed her. " What is the
reason of this, Annette ?" said Emily, when
she overtook her ; " what have you heard
concerning that picture, which makes you
so unwilling to stay when I bid you ?"

" I don't know what is the reason, ma'am-
selle," replied Annette, "nor any thing about
the picture, only I have heard there is some-
thing very dreadful belonging to it — and
that it has been covered up in black ever
since—' and that nobody has looked at it for
a great many yews — and it somehow has to
do with the owner of this castle before Sig
nor Montoni came to the possession of it—
And "

"Well, Annette," said Emily, smiling
" I perceive it is as you say — that you know
nothing about the picture."

114

THE MYSTERIES OF UBOLPHO.

"No, nothing, indeed, ma'amselle, for

they made me promise never to tell :

but "

"Well," rejoined Emily, who observed
that she was struggling between her incli-
nation to reveal a secret, and her appre-
hension for the consequence, " I will inquire

no further "

" No, pray, ma'am, do not."
" Lest you should tell all," interrupted
Emily.

Annette blushed, and Emily smiled, and
they passed on to the extremity of this suite
of apartments, and found themselves, after
some further perplexity, once more at the top
of the marble staircase, where Annette left
Emily, while she went to call one of the
servants of the castle to show them to
the chamber, for which they had been
seeking.

While she was absent, Emily's thoughts
returned to the picture ; an unwillingness to
tamper with the integrity of a servant, had
checked her inquiries on this subject, as
well as concerning some alarming hints,
which Annette had dropped respecting Mon-
toni; though her curiosity was entirely
awakened, and she had perceived that her
questions might easily be answered. She
was, now, however, inclined to go back to
the apartment and examine the picture ; but
the loneliness of the hour and of the place,
with the melancholy silence that reigned
around her. conspired with a certain degree
of awe, excited by the mystery attending
this picture, to prevent her. She determined,
however, when daylight should have re-ani-
mated her spirits, to go thither and remove
the veil. As she leaned from the corridor,
over the staircase, and her eyes wandered
round, she again observed, with wonder, the
vast strength of the walls, now somewhat
decayed, and the pillars of solid marble, that
rose from the hall and supported the roof.

A servant now appeared with Annette,
and conducted Emily to her chamber, which
was in a remote part of the castle, and at
the very end of the corridor, from whence
the suite of apartments opened, through
which they had been wandering, The lonely
aspect of her room, made Emily unwilling
that Annette should leave her immediately,
and the dampness of it chilled her with more
than fear. She begged Caterina, the servant
of the castle, to bring some wood and light
a fire.

" Ay, lady, it's many a year since a fire
was lighted here," said Caterina.

« You need not tell us that, good woman,"
said Annette; "every room in the castle
feels like a well. I wonder how you con-
trive to live here; for my part, I wish myself
at Venice again .' ' Emily waved her hand for
Caterina to fetch the wood.

" 1 wonder, ma'am, why they call this the

double chamber ?" said Annette, while Emily
surveyed it in silence, and saw that it was
lofty and spacious, like the others she had
seen, and, like many of them, too, had its
walls lined with dark larch-wood. The bed
and other furniture was very ancient, and
had an air of gloomy grandeur like all that she
had seen in the castle. One of tbe high
casements, which she opened, overlooked a
rampart, but the view beyond was hid in
darkness.

In the presence of Annette, Emily tried to
support her spirits, and to restrain the tears,
which, every now and then, came to her eyes.
She wished much to enquire when Count
Morano was expected at the castle, but an
unwillingness to ask unnecessaryquestions,
and to mention family concerns to a servant,
withheld her. Meanwhile Annette's thoughts
were engaged upon another subject : she
dearly loved the marvellous, and had heard
of a circumstance, connected with the castle,
that highly gratified this taste. Having been
enjoined not to mention it, her inclination to
tell it was so strong, that she was every
instant on the point of speaking what she
had Jieard. Such a strange circumstance,
too, and to be obliged to conceal it, was a
severe punishment ; but she knew that
Montoni might impose one much severer,
aud she feared to incur it by offending him.
Caterina now brought the wood, and its
bright blaze dispelled, for a while, the gloom
of the chamber. She told Annette that her
lady had inquired for her, and Emily was
once again left to her own sad reflections.
Her heart was not yet hardened agaiast the
stern manners of Montoni, and she was nearly
as much shocked now, as she had been when
she first witnessed them. The tenderness
and affection, to which she had been accus-
tomed, till she lost her parents, had
made her particularly sensible to any degree
of unkindness, and such a reverse as this, no
apprehension had prepared her to support.

To call off her attention from subjects
that pressed heavily upon her spirits, sht
rose and again examined her room and it
furniture. As she walked ronnd it, she pas
sed a door that was not quite shut, and per-
ceiving that it was not the one through
which she entered, she brought the ligl
forward to discover whither it led. SI
opened it, and, going forward, had nearly
fallen down a steep, narrow staircase, that
wound from it, between two stone wall
She wished to know to what it led, and wi
the more anxious, since it communicated
immediately with her apartment ; but, h
the present state of her spirits, she wanted
courage to venture into the darkness alone.
Closing the door, therefore, she endeavoured
to fasten it, but, upon further examination,
perceived that it had no bolts on the cham-
ber side, though it had two on the other

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

115

JRy placing a heavy chair against it, she in
some measure remedied the defect ; yet she
was still alarmed at the thought of sleeping
in this remote chamber alone, with a door
opening she knew not whither, and which
could not be perfectly fastened on the inside.
Sometimes she wished to iutreut of Madame
Montoni, that Annette might have leave to
remain with her all night, but was deterred
by an apprehension of betraying what would
be thought childish fears, and by an unwil-
lingness to increase the apt terrors of Annette.
Her gloomy reflections were, soon after,
interrupted by a footstep in the corridor, and
she was glad to see Annette enter with some
supper, sent by Madame Moutoni. Having
a table near the lire, she made the good girl
sit down and sup with her; and, when their
little repast was over, Annette, encouraged
by her kindness, and stirring the wood into
a blaze, drew her chair upon the hearth,
nearer to Emily, and said, — " Did you ever
hear, ma'amselle, of the strange accident
that made the signor lord of this castle?"

" What wonderful story have you now to
tell ?" said Emily, concealing the curiosity
occasioned by the mysterious hints she had
formerly heard on that subject.

" I have heard all about it, ma'amselle,"
said Annette, looking round the chamber and
drawing closer to Emily ; " Benedetto told
it me as we travelled together : says he,
* Annette, you don't know about this castle
here, that we are going to ?' No, says I,
Mr. Benedetto : pray what do you know ?
But, ma'amselle, you can keep a secret, or
I would not tell it you for the world ; for I
promised never to tell, and they say that the
signor does not like to have it talked of."

" If you promised to keep this secret,"
said Emily, " you do right not to mention
it."

Annette paused a moment, and then said,
u O, but to you, ma'amselle, to you I may
tell it safely, I know."

Emily smiled : " I certainly shall keep it
as faithfully as yourself, Annette."

Annette replied very gravely, that would
do, and proceeded — " This castle, you must
know, ma'amselle, is very old, and very
strong, and has stood out many sieges, as
they say. Now it was not Signor Montoni's
always, nor his father's ; no : but, by some
law or other, it was to come to the signor
if the lady died unmarried."
"What lady?" said Emily.
" I am not come to that yet," replied
Annette ; " it is the lady 1 am going to tell
you about, ma'amselle : but, as 1 was saying,
this lady lived in the castle, and had every
thing very grand about her, as you may
suppose, ma'amselle. The signor used often
to come to see her, and was in love with her,
and ottered to marry her ; for, though he
was some how related, that did not signify.

And she was in love with somebody else, and
would not have him, which made him very
angry as they say ; and you know, ma'am
selle, what an ill looking gentleman he is
when he is angry. Perhaps she saw him in
a passion, and therefore would not have him.
But, as 1 was saying, she was very melan-
choly and unhappy, and all that, for a long
while, and — Holy Virgin! what noise is that?
did not you hear a sound, ma'amselle?"

" It was only the wind," said Emily, " but
do come to the end of your story."

" As I was saying — O, where was I ? — as I
was saying — she was very melancholy and
unhappy a long while, and used to walk
about upon the terrace, there, under the
windows, by herself, and cry so ! it would
have done your heart good to hear her.
That is — 1 don't mean good, but it would
have made you cry too, as they tell me."

" Well, but Annette, do tell me the sub-
stance of your tale."

"All in good time, ma'am ; all this I heard
before at Venice, but what is to come I never
heard till to-day. This happened a great
many years ago, when Signor Montoni was
quite a young man. The lady— they called
her Signora Laurentini, was very handsome,
but she used to be in great passions, too,
sometimes, as well as the signor. Finding
he could not make her listen to him — what
does he do, but leave the castle, and never
comes near it for a long time ! but it was all
one to ljer 3 she was just as unhappy whether
he was here or not, till one evening — Holy St
Peter ! ma'amselle," cried Annette, " look
at that lamp, see how blue it burns !" She
looked fearfully round the chamber. " Ridi-
culous girl !" said Emily, " why will you
indulge those fancies ? Pray let me hear the
end of your story, I am weary."

Annette still kept her eyes on the lamp,
and proceeded in a lower voice. " It was
one evei Mjg, they say, at the latter end of
the ^eai, it might be about the middle of
September, I suppose, or the beginning of
October ; nay, for that matter, it might be
November, for that, too, is the latter end ot
the year, but that I cannot say for certain,
because they did not tell me for certain
themselves. However, it was at tte latter
end of the year, this grand lady walked out
of the castle into the woods below, as she
had often done before, all alone, only her
maid was with her. The wind blew cold, and
strewed the leaves about, and whistled
dismally among those great old chesnut-trees,
that we passed, ma'amselle, as we came to
the castle — for Benedetto showed me the
trees as he was talking — the wind blew cold,
and her woman would have persuaded her to
return : but all would not do, for she was
fond of walking in the woods, at evening
time, and, if the leaves were falling about
her, so much the better.

116

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

w Well, they saw her go down among the
woods, but night came, and she did not
return ; ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, twelve
o'clock came, and no lady ! Well, the ser-
vants thought, to be sure, some accident had
befallen her, and they went out to seek her
They searched all night long, but could not
find her, or any trace of her, and, from that
day to this, ma'amselle, she has never been
heard of."

" Is this true, Annette ?" said Emily, in
much surprise.

" True, ma'am !" said Annette, with a
look of honor, " yes, it is true, indeed.
But they do say," she added, lowering her
voice, " they do say, that the signora has
been seen, several times since, walking in
the woods and about the castle in the night :
several of the old servants, who remained
here some time after, declare they saw her ;
and, since then, she has been seen by some
of the vassals, who have happened to be in
the castle, at night. Carlo the old steward,
could tell such things, they say, if he would !"

H How contradictory is this, Annette !"
said Emily, "you say nothing has been
since known, of her, and yet she has been
»een !"

" But all this was told me for a great
secret," rejoined Annette, without noticing
the remark, " and I am sure, ma'am, you
would not hurt either me or Benedetto, so
much as to go and tell it again." Emily
remained silent, and Annette repeated her
last sentence.

" You have nothing to fear from my in-
discretion," replied Emily, " and let me ad-
vise you, my good Annette, be discreet
yourself, and never mention what you have
just told me to any other person. Signor
Montoni, as you say, may be angry if he
hears of it. But what inquiries were made
concerning the lady ?"

" O ! a great deal, indeed, ma'amselle,
for the signor laid claim to the castle
directly, as being the next heir, and they
said, that is the judges, or the senators, or
somebody of that sort, said, he could not
take possession of it till so many years were
gone by, and then, if after all the lady
could not be found, why she would be as
good as dead, and the castle would be his
own; and so it is his own. But the story
went round, and many strange reports were
spread, so very strange, ma'amselle, that I
shall not tell them."

" That is stranger still, Annette," said
Emily, . smiling, and rousing herself from
her reverie. " But, when Signora Lauren-
toni was afterwards seen in the castle, did
nobody speak to heH"

<* Speak — speak to her ?" cried Annette,
with a look of terror ; * no, to be sure."

« And why not," rejoined Emily, willing
10 hear further.

" Holy Mother ! speak to a spirit !"

" But what reason had they to conclude
it was a spirit, unless they had approached
and spoken to it ?"

"O ma'amselle, J cannot tell. How can
you ask such shocking questions ? But
nobody ever saw it come in, or go out of
the castle ; and it was in one place now,
and then the next minnte in quite another
part of the castle ; and then it never spoke,
and, if it was alive, what should it do in the
castle if it never spoke ? Several parts of
the castle have never been gone into since,
they say, for that very reason."

" What, because it never spoke ?" said
Emily, trying to laugh away the fears that
began to steal upon her. — " No, ma'amselle,
no," replied Annette, rather angrily ; " but
because something has been seen there.
They say too, there is an old chapel adjoin-
ing the west side of the castle, where, any
time at midnight you may hear such groans!
—it makes one shudder to think of them ;
—and strange sights have been seen there

" Pr'ythee, Annette, no more of these
silly tales," said Emily.

" Silly tales, ma'amselle ! O, but I will
tell you one story about this, if you please,
that Cater ina told me. It was one cold
winter's night, that Caterina (she often
came to the castle then, she says, to keep
old Carlo and his wife company, and so he
recommended her afterwards to the signor,
and she has lived here ever since)— Caterina
was sitting with them in the little hall 5 says
Carlo, c I wish we had some of those figs
to roast, that lie in the store-clcset, but it
is a long way off, and I am loth to fetch
them ; do, Caterina,' says he, * for you are
young and nimble, do bring us some, the
fire is in a nice trim for roasting them ; they
lie,' says he, in such a corner of the store-
room, at the end of the north gallery ; here,
take the lamp,' says he, * and mind, us you
go up the great staircase, that the wind,
through the rcof, does not blow it out." So
with that Caterina took the lamp*— Hush !
ma'amselle, I surely heard a noise !"

Emily, whom Annette had now infected
with her own terrors, listened attentively ;
but every thing was still, and Annette
proceeded 2

" Caterina went to the north gallery, that
is the wide gallery we passed, ma'am, before
before we came to the corridor, here. As
she went with the lamp in her hand, think-
ing of nothing at all— There, again," cried
Annette, suddenly, — " I heard it again j—
it was not fancy, ma'amselle !"

* Hush !" said Emily, trembling. They
listened, and, continuing to sit quite still,
Emily heard a low knocking against the
wall. It came repeatedly. Annette then
screamed loudly, and the chamber door

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

U7

•lowly opened. — It was Caterina, come to
ell Annette, that her lady wanted her.
Emily, though she now perceived who it
was, could not immediately overcome her
.error ; while Annette, half laughing, half
crying, scolded Caterina heartily for thus
alarming them ; and was also terrffied lest
what she had told had been overheard.
Emily, whose mind was deeply impressed
(f/ the chief circumstance of Annette's rela-
tion, was unwilling to be left alone in the
©resent state of her spirits; but, to avoid
offending Madame Montoni, and betraying
her own weakness, she struggled to over-
come the illusions of fear, and dismissed
Annette for the night.

When she was alone, her thoughts re-
curred to the strange history of Signora
Laurentini, and then to her own strange
situation, in the wild and solitary mountains
of a foreign country, in the castle and the
power of a man, to whom, only a few
preceding months, she was an entire stran-
ger ; who had already exercised an usurped
authority over her, and whose character she
now regarded with a degree of terror, appa-
rently j ustified by the fears of others. She
knew that he had invention equal to the con-
ception and talents to the execution of any
project, and she greatly feared he had a
heart too void of feeling to oppose the per-
petration of whatever his interests might
suggest. She had long observed the unhap-
piness of Madame Montoni, and had often
been witness 1o the stern and contemptuous
behaviour she received from her husband.
To these circumstances, which conspired to
give her just cause for alarm, were now
added those thousand nameless terrors, which
exist only in active imaginations, and which
set reason and examination equally at de-
fiance.

Emily remembered all that Valancourt had
told her, on the eve of her departure from
Languedoc, respecting Montoni, and all
that he had said to dissuade her from ven-
turing on the journey. His fears had often
since appeared to her prophetic — now they
seemed confirmed. Her heart, as it gave
her back the image of Valancourt, mourned
in vain regret, but reason soon came with a
consolation, which, though feeble at first,
acquired vigour from reflection. She consi-
dered that, whatever might be her sufferings,
she had withheld from involving him in mis-
fortune, and that, whatever her future sor-
rows could be, she was, at least, free from
self-reproach.

Her melancholy was assisted by the hollow
sighings of the wind along the corridor and
round the castle. The cheerful blaze of the
wood had long been extinguished, and she
sat with her eyes fixed on the dying embers,
till a loud gust, that swept through the eor- >
ridor, and shook the doors and casements,

alarmed her, for its violence had moved the
chair she had placed as a fastening, and the
door leading to the private staircase stood
half open. Her curiosity and her fears were
again awakened. She took the lamp to the
top of the steps, and stood hesitating whe-
ther to go down ; but again the profound
stillness and the gloom of the place awed
her, and, determining to inquire further,
when daylight might assist the search, she
closed the door, and placed against it a
stronger guard.

She now retired to her bed, leaving the
lamp burning on the table ; but its gloomy
light, instead of dispelling her fears, assisted
it ; for, by its uncertain rays, she almost
fancied she saw shapes flit past her curtains,
and glide into the remote obscurity of her
chamber. — The castle clock struck one be-
fore she closed her eyes to sleep.

CHAP. XIX.

** I think it is the weakness of mine eyes,
That shapes this monstrous apparition.
It comes upon me !"

JULIUS CESAR.

Daylight dispelled from Emily's mind
the glooms of superstition, but not those of
apprehension. The Count Morano was the
first image that occurred to her waking
thoughts, and then came a train of antici^
pated evils which she could neither conquer
tior avoid. She rose, and, to relieve her
mind from the busy ideas that tormented it,
compelled herself to notice external objects.
From her casement she looked out upon the
wild grandeur of the scene, closed nearly on
all sides by alpine steeps, whose tops peeping
over each other, faded from the eye in misty
hues, while the promontories below were
dark with woods, that swept down to their
base, and stretched along the narrow vallies.
The rich pomp of these woods was parti-
cularly delightful to Emily ; and she viewed
with astonishment the fortifications of the
castle spreading along a vast extent of rock,
and now partly in decay, the grandeur of the
ramparts below, and the towers and battle-
ments and various features of the fabric
above. From these her sight wandered over
the cliffs and woods into the valley, along
which foamed a broad and rapid stream,
seen falling among the crags of an opposite
mountain, now flashing in the sun-beams,
and now shadowed by over-arching pines,
till it was entirely concealed by their thick
foliage. Again it burst from beneath this
darkness in one broad sheet of foam, and fell
thundering into the vale. Nearer, towards
the west, opened the mountain- vista, which
Emily had viewed with such sublime emo-
tion, on her approach to the castle ; a thin
dusky vapour, that rose from the valley,
overspread its features with a sweet obscu
rity. As this ascended and caught the sun.

US

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

beams, it kindled into a crimson tint, and
touched with exquisite beauty the woods
and cliffs, over which it passed to the sum-
mit of the mountains ; then, as the veil drew
up, it was delightful to watch the gleaming
objects that progressively disclosed them-
selves m the valley— the green turf— dark
woods — little ro cky recesses— a few peasants'
huts— the foaming stream — a herd of cattle,
and various images of pastoral beauty.
Then, the pine-forests brightened, and then
the broad breast of the mountains, till, at
length, the mist settled round their summit,
touching them with a ruddy glow. The
features of the vista now appeared distinctly,
and the broad deep shadows that fell from
the lower cliffs, gave strong effect to the
streaming splendour above ; while the moun-
tains gradually sinking in the perspective,
appeared to shelve into the Adriatic sea,
for such Emily imagined to be the gleam of
blueish light that terminated the view.

Thus she endeavoured to amuse her fancy,
and was not unsuccessful. The breezy
freshness of the morning, too, revived her.
She raised her thoughts in prayer, which she
felt always most disposed to do, when view-
ing the sublimity of nature, and her mind
recovered its strength.

When she turned from the casement, her
eyes glanced upon the door she had so care-
fully guarded on the preceding night, and
she now determined to examine whither it
led ; but, on advancing to remove the chairs,
she perceived that they were already moved
a little way. Her surprise cannot easily be
imagined, when, in the next minute she per-
ceived that the door was fastened, She felt
as if she had seen an apparition. The door
of the corridor was locked as she had left it,
but this door, which could be secured only
on the outside, must have been bolted during
the night. She became seriously uneasy at
the thought of sleeping again in a chamber
thus liable to intrusion, so remote, too, as it
was from the family, and she determined to
«nention the circumstance to Madame Mon-
toni, and to request a change.

After some perplexity she found her way
into the great hall, and to the room which
she had left on the preceding night, where .
breakfast was spread, and her aunt was alone,
for Montoni had been walking over the envi-
rons of the castle, examining the condition
of its fortifications, and talking for some
time with Carlo. Emily observed that her
aunt had been weeping, and her heart softened
towards her, with an affection that showed
itself in her manner rather than in words,
while she carefully avoided the appearance
of having noticed that she was unhappy. She
seized the opportunity of Montonfs absence
to mention the circumstance of the door, to
request that she might be allowed another
apartment, and to inquire again concerning

the occasion of their sudden journey. Oti
the first subject her aunt referred her to
Montoni, positively refusing to interfere in
the affair ; on the last she professed utter
ignorance.

Emily, then, with a wish of making her
aunt more reconciled to her situation, praised
the grandeur of the castle and the surrounding
scenery, and endeavoured to soften every
unpleasing circumstance attending it. But,
though misfortune had somewhat conquered
the asperity of Madame Montoni's temper*
and, by increasing her cares for herself, had
taught her to feel in some degree for others,
the capricious love of rule, which nature
had planted and habit had nourished in her
heart was not subdued. She could not now
deny herself the gratification of tyrannizing
over the innocent and helpless Emily, by at-
tempting to ridicule the taste she could not
feel.

Her satirical discourse was, however, in-
terrupted by the entrance of Montoni, and
her countenance immediately assumed a
mingled expression ot fear and resentment,
while he seated himself at the breakfast-table,
as if unconscious of there being any person
but himself in the room.

Emily, as she observed him in silence, saw
that his conntenance was darker and sterner
than usual. " O could I know," said she to
herself, " what passes in that mind ; could I
know the thoughts that are known there, I
should no longer be condemned to this tor-
turing suspense!" Their breakfast passed
in silence, till Emily ventured to request
that another apartment might be allotted to
her, and related the circumstance which
made her wish it.

" I have no time to attend to these idle
whims," said Montoni ; " that chamber was
prepared for you, and you must rest con-
tented with it. It is not probable that any
person would take the trouble of going to
that remote staircase, for the purpose of
fastening a door. If it was not fastened
when you entered the chamber, the wind,
perhaps, shook the door and made the bolts
slide. But I know not why I should un
dertake to account for so trifling an oc-
currence."

This explanation was by no means satis-
factory to Emily, who had observed that the
bolts were rusted, and consequently could
not be thus easily moved ; but she forebore
to say so, and repeated her request.

" If you will not release yourself from the
slavery of these fears," said Montoni,
sternly, " at least forbear to torment others
by the mention of them. Conquer such
whims, and endeavour to strengthen your
mind. No existence is more contemptible
than that which is embittered by fear." As
he said this, his eye glanced upon Madame
Montoni, who coloured highly, but was still

TOE MYSTfclUES OF UDOLPHO

119

silent. Emily, wounded and disappointed,
thought her fears were, in this instance, too
reasonable to deserve ridicule ; but, per-
ceiving that, however they might oppress
her, she must endure them, she tried to
withdraw her attention from the subject.

Carlo soon after entered with some fruit ;
" Your excellenza is tired after your long
ramble," said he, as he set the fruit upon
the table ; " but you have more to see after
breakfast. There is a place in the vaulted
passage leading to •

Montoni frowned upon him, and waved
his hand for him to leave the room. Carlo
stopped, looked down, and then added, as he
advanced to the breakfast-table, and took up
the basket of fruit, "I made bold, your
excellenza, to bring some cherries, here, for
my honoured lady and my young mistress.
Will your ladyship taste them, madame ?"— •
said Carlo, presenting the basket ; " they are
very fine ones, though I gathered them my-
self, and from an old tree, that catches all
the south sun ; they are as big as plums,
your ladyship."

" Very well, old Carlo," said Madame
Montoni ; " I am obliged to you."

" And the young signora, too, she may
like some of them," rejoined Carlo, turning
with the basket to Emily ; " it would do me
good to see her eat some."

" Thank you, Carlo," said Emily, taking
some cherries, and smiling kindly.

" Come, come," said Montoni, impa-
tiently, " enough of this. Leave the room,
but be in waiting. I shall want you pre-
sently."

Carlo obeyed, and Montoni, soon after,
went out to examine further into the state
of the castle; while Emily remained with
her aunf, patiently enduring her ill humour,
and endeavouring, with much sweetness, to
sooth her affliction, instead of resenting its
effect.

When Madame Montoni retired to her
dressing-room, Emily endeavoured to amuse
herself by a view of the castle. Through a
folding-door she passed from the great hall
to the ramparts, which extended along the
brow of the precipice round three sides of
the edifice ; the fourth was guarded by the
high walls of the courts, and by the gateway
through which she had passed on the pre-
ceding evening. The grandeur of the broad
ramparts, and the changing scenery they
overlooked, excited her high admiration; for
the extent of the terraces allowed the fea-
tures of the country to be seen in such va-
rious points of view, that they appeared to
form new landscapes. She often paused to
examine the Gothic magnificence of Udol-
pho, its proud irregularity, its lofty towers
and battlements, its high-arched casements,
and its slender watch-tower, perched upon
the corners of turrets. Then she would lean

on the wall of the terrace, and, shuddering,
measure with her eye the precipice below,
till the dark summits of the woods arrested
it. Wherever she turned appeared moun-
tain-tops, forests of pine, and narrow glens,
opening among the Apennines, and retiring
from the sight into inaccessible regions.

While she thus leaned, Montoni, followed
by two men, appeared ascending a winding
path cut in the rock below. He stopped
upon a cliff, and, pointing to the ramparts,
turned to his followers, and talked with much
eagerness of gesticulation. Emily perceived
that one of these men was Carlo ; the other
was in the dress of a peasant, and he alone
seemed to be receiving the directions of
Montoni.

She withdrew from the walls, and pursued
her walk, till she heard at a distance the
sound of carriage- wheels, and then the loud
bell of the portal, when it instantly occurred
to her that Count Morano was arrived. As
she hastily passed the folding doors from
the terrace, towards her own apartment, se-
veral persons eutered the hall by an oppo-
site door. She saw them at the extremity 01
the arcades, and immediately retreated ; but
the agitation of her spirits, and the extent
and duskiness of the hall, had prevented her
from distinguishing the persons of the stran-
gers. Her fears, however, had but one ob-
ject, and they called up that object to her
fancy : she believed that she had seen Count
Morano.

When she thought that they had passed
the hall, she ventured again to the door,
and proceeded, unobserved, to her room,
where she remained, agitated with apprehen-
sions, and listening to every distant sound.
At length, hearing voices on the rampart,
she hastened to her window, and observed
Montoni, with Signor Cavigni, walking be-
low, conversing earnestly, and often stop-
ping and turning towards each other, at
which times their discourse seemed to he
uncommonly interesting.

Of the several persons who had appeared
in the hall, here was Cavigni alone : but
Emily's alarm was soon after heightened by
the steps of some one in the corridor, who,
she apprehended, brought a message from
the count. In the next moment Annette ap
peared.

" Ah ! ma'amselle," said she, " here is the
Signor Cavigni arrived. I am sure I rej oieei 1
to see a christian person in this place ; and
then he is so good-natured too, he always
takes so much notice of me ! And he«e is
also Signor Verezzi, and who do you think
besides, ma'amselle ?"

"I cannot guess, Annette; tell mequickly."
" Nay, ma'am, do guess once."
" Well, then," said Emily, with assumed
composure, " it is — Count Morano, I sup-
pose"

120

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPtiO.

" Holy Virgin V* cried Annette, u are you
ill, ma'amselle ? You are going to faint !
let me get some water."

Emily sunk into a chair : * Stayr An-
nette," said she, feebly, " do not leave me —
I shall soon be better ; open the casement.
The count, you say— he is come then ?"

u Who, I ? — the count ! No, ma'amselle,
I did not say so."—" He is not come then ?"
«aid Emily, eagerly. — " No, ma'amselle."

" You are sure of it ?"

" Lord bless me J" said Annette, " you re-
cover very suddenly, ma'am ! why, I thought
you was dying just now."

" But the count, you are sure, is not

come

>"

" O yes, quite sure of that, ma'amselle.
Why, I was looking out through the grate
in the north turret, when the carriages drove
into the court-yard ; and I never expected
to see such a goodly sight in this dismal old
castle !— *-but here are masters, and servants
too, enough to make the place ring agaiu.
O ! I was ready to leap through the rusty old
bars for joy ! O ! who would ever have
thought of seeing a christian face in this
huge dreary house ? 1 could have kissed the
very horses that brought them."

u Well, Annette, well; I am better now."

" Yes, ma'amselle, I see you are. O ! all
the servants will lead merry lives here now ;
we shall have singing and dancing in the lit-
tle hall, for the signor cannot hear us there
— and droll stories. — Ludovico's come,
ma'am ; yes, there is Ludovico come with
them! You remember Ludovico, ma'am —
a tall, handsome young man, Signor Cavi-
gni's lacquey ; who always wears his cloak
with such a grace, thrown round his left
arm, and his hat set on so smartly, all on
one side, and "

" No," said Emily, who was wearied by
her loquacity.

" What, ma'amselle ! don't you remember
Ludovico, who rowed the cavaliero's gon-
dola, at the last regatta, and won the prize ?
and who used to sing such sweet verses about
Orlandos, and about the Blacka-moors too ;
and Charly — Charly — magne, yes, that was
the name, all under my lattice, in the west
portico, on the moon-light nights at Venice ?
O ! 1 have listened to him "

" I fear to thy peril, my good Annette,"
said Emily ; " for it seems his verses have
stolen thy heart. But let me advise you;
if it is so, keep the secret — never let him
know it "

« Ah, ma'amselle ! how can one keep such
a secret as that ?"

" Well, Annette, 1 am now so much bet-
ter, that you may leave me."

" O, but, ma'amselle, I forgot to ask —
how did you sleep in this dreary old cham-
ber last night ?" — " As well as usual." —
41 Did vou hear no noises ?" — " None.'

you

* Nor see any thing ?" — " Nothing. — «
" Well, that is surprising." — " Not in the
least : and now tell me why you ask these
questions."

" O, ma'amselle ! t would not tell you
for the world, nor all t have heard about this
chamber either ; it would frighten you so."

" If that is all, y*ou have frightened me
already, and may therefore tell me what you
know, without hurting your conscience."

" O Lord ! they say the room is haunted,
and has been so these many years."

"It is by a ghost, then, who can draw
bolts," said Emily, endeavouring to laugh
away her apprehensions •, " for I left that
door open last night, and found it fastened
this morning"

Annette turned pale, and said not a word.

" Do you know whether any of the ser-
vants fastened this door in the morning be-
fore I arose ?"

" No, ma'am, that I will be bound they
did not ; but I don't know ; shall I go and
ask, ma'amselle ?" said Annette, moving
hastily towards the corridor.

" Stay, Annette, I have other questions to
ask : tell me what you have heard concern-
ing this room, and whither that staircase
leads ?"

" I will go and ask it all directly, ma'am ,
besides, I am sure my lady wants me. I
cannot stay now, indeed, ma'am."

She hurried from the room, without wait
ing Emily's reply; whose heart, lightened
by the certainty that Mora no was not ar-
rived, allowed her to smile at the supersti-
tious terror which had seized on Annette .
for, though she sometimes felt its influence
herself, she could smile at it when apparent
in other persons.

Montoni having refused Emily another
chamber, she determined to bear with pa-
tience the evil she could not remove ; and,
in order to make the room as comfortable
as possible, unpacked her books, her sweet
delight in happier days, and her soothing
resource in the hours of moderate sorrow ;
but there were hours when even these failed
of their effect ; when the genius, the taste,
the enthusiasm, of the sublimest writers
were felt no longer.

Her little library being arranged on a high
chest, part of the furniture of the room, she
took out her drawing utensils, and was tran-
quil enough to be pleased with the thought
of sketching the sublime scenes beheld from
her windows; but she suddenly checked
this pleasure, remembering how often she
had soothed herself by the intention of ob
tabling amusement of this kind, and hud
been prevented by some new circumstanc
of misfortune.

" How can I suffer myself to be delude
by hope," said she, " and, because Com
Morano is not yet arrived, feel a momentary

e

;

happiness ? Alas ! what is it to me whether
he is here to-day, or to-morrow, if he comes
at all ? — and that he will come it were weak-
ness to doubt."

To withdraw her thoughts, however, from
the subject of her misfortunes, she attempted
to read ; but her attention wandered from
the page, and at length she threw aside the
book, and determined to explore the adjoin-
ing chambers of the castle. Her imagina-
tion was pleased with the view of ancient
grandeur, and an emotion of melancholy awe
awakened all its powers, as she walked
through rooms obscure and desolate, where
no footsteps had passed probably for many
years, and remembered the strange history
of the former possessor of the edifice. This
brought to her recollection the veiled pic-
ture, which had attracted her curiosity on
the preceding night ; and she resolved to
examine it. As she passed through the
chambers that led to this, she found herself
somewhat agitated ; its connection with the
late lady of the castle, and the conversation
of Annette, together with the circumstance
of the veil, throwing a mystery over the ob-
ject that excited a faint degree of terror.
But a terror of this nature, as it occupies
and expands the mind, and elevates it to
high expectation, is purely sublime, and
leads us, by a kind of fascination, to seek
even the object from which we appear to
shrink.

Emily passed on with faltering steps ; and,
having paused a moment at the door before
she attempted to open it, she then hastily
filtered the chamber, and went towards the

picture, which appeared to be enclosed In a
frame of uncommon size, that hung in a
dark part of the room. She paused again ,
and then, with a timid hand, lifted the veil,
but instantly let it fall; perceiving that
what it had concealed was no picture;—
and before she could leave the chamber, she
dropped senseless on the floor.

When she recovered her recollection, the
remembrance of what she had seen had
nearly deprived her of it a second time. She
had scarcely strength to remove from the
room and regain her own ; and when arrived
there, wanted courage to remain alone —
Horror ocenpied her mind, and excluded,
for a time, all sense of past and dread of fu-
ture misfortune : she seated herself near the
casement, because from thence she heard
voices, though distant, on the terrace, and
might see people pass ; and these, trifling
as tiiey were, were reviving circumstances.
When her spirits had recovered their tone,
she considered whether she should mention
what she had seen to Madame Montoni ; and
various and important motives urged her to
do so, among which the least was the hope
of the relief which an overburdened mind
finds in speaking of the subject of its inte-
rest. But she was aware of the terrible con*
sequences which such a communication
might lead to ; and, dreading the indiscre-
tion of her aunt, at length endeavoured to
arm herself with resolution to observe a
profound silence on the subject. Montoni
and Verezzi soon after passed under the
casement, speaking cheerfully, and their
voices revived her. Presently the Signor*

fan

i«e

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

Hertolini and Cavigni joined the party on
the terrace; and Emily, supposing that Ma-
dame Montoni was then alone, went to seek
her •, for the solitude of her chamber, and its
proximity to that where she had received
so severe a shock, again affected her spirits.

She found her aunt in her dressing-room,
preparing for dinner. Emily's pale and
affrighted countenance alarmed even Ma-
dame Montoni ; but she had sufficient
strength of mind to be silent on the subject
that still made her shudder, and which was
ready to burst from her lips. In her aunt's
apartment she remained till they both de-
scended to dinner. There she met the gen-
tlemen lately arrived, who had a kind of
busy seriousness in their looks, which was
somewhat unusual with them, while their
thoughts seemed too much occupied by some
deep interest to suffer them to bestow much
attention either on Emily, or Madame Mon-
toni. They spoke little, and Montoni less.
Emily, as she now looked on him, shudder-
ed. The horror of the chamber rushed on
her mind. Several times the colour faded
from her cheeks, and she feared that illness
would betray her emotions, and compel her
to leave the room j but the strength of her
resolution remedied the weakness of her
frame ; she obliged herself to converse, and
even tried to look cheerful.

Montoni evidently laboured under some
vexation, such as would probably have
agitated a weaker mind, or a more sus-
ceptible heart, but which appeared, from the
sternness of his countenance, only to bend
up his faculties to energy and fortitude.

It was a comfortless and silent meal.
The gloom of the castle seemed to have
spread its contagion even over the gay
countenance of Cavigni, and with this gloom
was mingled a fierceness, such as she had
seldom seen him indicate. Count Morano
was not named, and what conversation there
was, turned chiefly upon the wars which at
that time agitated the Italian states, the
strength of the Venetian armies, and the
characters of their generals.

After dinner, when the servants had with-
drawn, Emily learned that the cavalier, who
had drawn upon himself the vengeance of
Orsino, had since died of his wounds, and
that strict search was still making for his
murderer. The intelligence seemed to dis-
turb Montoni, who mused, and then inquired
where Orsino had concealed himself. His
guests, who all, except Cavigni, were igno-
rant that Montoni had himself assisted him
to escape from Venice, replied, that he had
fled in the night with such precipitation and
secrecy, that his most intimate companions
knew not whither. Montoni blamed himself
for having asked the question, for a second
thought convinced him, that a man of Orsi-
no's suspicious temper was not likely to

trust any of the persons present with the
knowledge of his asylum. He considered
himself, however, as entitled to his utmost
confidence, and did not doubt that he should
soon hear of him.

Emily retired with Madame Montoni,
soon after the cloth was withdrawn, and lef4
the caviliers to their secret councils, but no*
before the significant frowns of Montoni had
warned his wife to depart, who passed from
the hall to the ramparts, and walked for
some time in silence, which Emily did not
interrupt, for her mind was also occupied by
interests of its own. It required all her re-
solution to forbear communicating to Ma-
dame Montoni the terrible subject which
thrilled her every nerve with horror ; and
sometimes she was on the point of doing so,
merely to obtain the relief of a moment ; but
she knew how wholly she was in the power
of Montoni, and, considering that the indis-
cretion of her aunt might prove fatal to
them both, she compelled herself to endure
a present and an inferior evil, rather than to
tempt a future and a heavier one. A strange
kind of presentiment frequently, on this day,
occurred to her ; — it seemed as if her fate
rested here, and was by some invisible
means connected with this castle.

" Let me not accelerate it," said she to
herself : " for whatever I may be reserved,
let me, at least, avoid self-reproach."

As she looked on the massy walls of the
edifice, her melancholy spirits represented it
to be her prison : and she started as at a
new suggestion, when she considered how
far distant she was from her native country,
from her little peaceful home, and from her
only friend — how remote was her hope of
happiness, how feeble the expectation of
again seeing him ! Yet the idea of Valan-
court, and her confidence in his faithful love,
had hitherto been her only solace, and she
struggled hard to retain them. A few tears
of agony started to her eyes, which she
turned aside to conceal.

While she afterwards leaned on the wall
of the rampart, some peasants, at a little
distance, were seen examining a breach,
before which lay a heap of stones, as if to
repair it, and a rusty old cannon, that ap-
peared to have fallen from its station above.
Madame Montoni stopped to speak to the
men, and inquired what they were going to
do. " To repair the fortifications, your
ladyship," said one of them ; a labour which
she was somewhat surprised that Montoni
should think necessary, particularly since he
had never spoken of the castle, as of a place
at which he meant to reside for any considera-
ble time ; but she passed on towards a lofty
arch, that led from the south to the east
rampart, and which adjoined the castle on
one side, while, on the other, it supported a
small watch-tower, that entirely commanded

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

f«

the deep valley below. As she approached
this arch, she saw, beyond it, winding along
the woody descent of a distant mountain, a
long troop of horse and foot, whom she
knew to be soldiers only by the glitter of
their pikes and other arms, for the distance
did not allow her to discover the colour of
their liveries. As she gazed, the vanguard
issued from the woods into the valley, but
the train still continued to pour over the re-
mote summit of the mountain in endless
succession j while, in the front, the military
uniform became distinguishable, and the
commanders, riding first, and seeming by
their gestures to direct the march of those
that followed, at length approached very
near to the castle.

Such a spectacle, in these solitary regions,
both surprised and alarmed Madame Mon-
toni, and she hastened towards some pea-
sants, who were employed in raising bas-
tions before the south rampart, where the
rock was less abrupt than elsewhere. These
men could give no satisfactory answers to
her inquiries, but, being roused by them,
gazed in stupid astonishment upon the long
cavalcade. Madame Montoni then, think-
ing it necessary to communicate further the
object of her alarm, sent Emily to say that
she wished to speak to Montoni ; an errand
her niece did not approve, for she dreaded
his irowns, which she knew this message
would provoke ; but she obeyed in silence.

As she drew near the apartment, in which
he sat with his guests, she heard them in
earnest and loud dispute, and she paused a
moment, trembling at the displeasure which
her sudden interruption would occasion. In
the next, their voices sunk altogether 5 she
then ventured to open the door, and, while
Montoni turned hastily and looked at her
without speaking, she delivered her mes-
sage.

" Tell Madame Montoni I ani engaged,"
said he.

Emily then thought it proper to mention
the subject of her alarm. Montoni and his
companions rose instantly, and went to the
windows, but these not affording them a
view of the troops, they at length proceeded
to the ramparts, where Cavigni conjectured
it to be a legion of Condottteri, on their
march towards Modena.

One part of the cavalcade now extended
along the valley, and another wound among
the mountains towards the north, while some
troops still lingered on the woody precipices,
where the first had appeared, so that the
great length of the procession seemed to in-
clude an whole army. While Montoni and
his family watched its progress, they heard
the sound of trumpets and the clash of cym-
bals in the vale, and then others answering
from the heights. Emily listened with emo-
tion to the shrill blast that woke the echoes

of the mountains, and Montoni explained
the signals, with which he appeared to be
well acquainted, and which meant nothing
hostile. The uniforms of the troops, and
the kind of arms they bore, confirmed to
him the conjecture of Cavigni, and he had
the satisfaction to see them pass by, without
even stopping to gaze upon his castle. He
did not, however, leave the ramparts till the
bases of the mountains had shut them from
his view, and the last murmur of the trum-
pet floated on the wind. Cavigni and Ve-
rezzi were inspirited by this spectacle, which
seemed to have roused all the fire of their
temper ; Montoni turned into the castle in
thoughtful silence.

Emily's mind had not yet sufficiently re-
covered from its late shock, to endure the
loneliness of her chamber, and she remained
upon the ramparts \ for Madame Montoni
had not invited her to her dressing-room,
whither she had gone evidently in low spi-
rits, and Emily, from her late experience,
had lost all wish to explore the gloomy and
mysterious recesses of the castle. The ram-
parts, therefore, were almost her only re-
treat, and here she lingered till the grey
haze of evening was again spread over the
scene.

The cavaliers supped by themselves, and
Madame Montoni remained in her apart-
ment, whither Emily went before she retired
to her own. She found her aunt weeping,
and in much agitation. The tenderness ot
Emily was naturally so soothing, that it sel-
dom failed to give comfort to the drooping
heart : but Madame Montoni's was torn,
and the softest accents of Emily's voice were
lost upon it. With her usual delicacy, she
did not appear to observe her aunt's distress,
but it gave an involuntary gentleness to her
manners, and an air of solicitude to her
countenance, which Madame Montoni was
vexed to perceive, who seemed to feel the
pity of her niece to be an insult to her pride,
and dismissed her as soon as she properly
could. Emily did not venture to mention
again the reluctance she felt to her gloomy
chamber, but she requested that Annette
might be permitted to remain with her till
she retired to rest; and the request was
somewhat reluctantly granted. Annette,
however, was now with the servants, and
Emily withdrew alone.

With light and hasty steps she passed
through the long galleries, while the feeble
glimmer of the lamp she carried only show-
ed the gloom around her, and the passing
air threatened to extinguish it. The lonely
silence that reigned in this part of the castle,
awed her 5 now and then, indeed, she heard
a faint peal of laughter rise from a remote
part of the edifice, where the servants were
assembled, but it was soon lost, and a kind
of breathless stillness remained. As she

124

THE MYSTERIES 01 VV0LVU0.

passed the suite of rooms which she had visit-
ed in the morning, her eyes glanced fearfully
on the door, and she almost fancied she
heard murmuring sounds within, but she
paused not a moment to inquire.

Having reached her own apartment, where
no blazing wood on the hearth dissipated the
gloom, she sat down with a book, to enliven
her attention till Annette should come, and
a fire could be kindled. She continued to
read till her light was nearly expired, but
Annette did not appear, and the solitude and
obscurity of her chamber again affected her
spirits, the more, because of its nearness to
the scene of horror that she had witnessed in
the morning. Gloomy and fantastic images
came to her mind. She looked fearfully to-
wards the door of the staircase, and then,
examining whether it was still fastened,
found that it was so. Unable to conquer
the uneasiness she felt at the prospect of
sleeping again in this remote ancUinsecure
apartment, which some person seemed to
have entered during the preceding night,
her impatience to see Annette, whom she
had bidden to inquire concerning this cir-
cumstance, became extremely painful. She
wished also to question her, as to the object
which had excited so much horror in her
own mind, and which Annette on the preced-
ing evening had appeared to be in part ac-
quainted with, though her words were very
remote from the truth, and it appeared
plainly to Emily that the girl had been pur-
posely misled by a false report: above all,
she was surprised that the door of the cham-
ber, which contained it, should be left un-
guarded. Such an instance of negligence
almost surpassed belief. But her light
was now expiring, the faiftt flashes it
threw upon the walls called up all the ter-
rors of fancy, and she rose to find her way. to
the habitable part of the castle, before it was
cjuite extinguished.

As she opened the chamber door, she
heard remote voices, and, soon after, saw a
light issue upon the further end of the cor-
ridor, which Annette and another servant
approached. " I am glad you are come,"
said Emily : " what has detained you so
long ? Pray light me a fire immediately."

" My lady wanted me, ma'amselle," re-
plied Annette in some confusion ; " I will
go and get the wood."

" No," said Caterina, " that is my busi-
ness," and left the room instantly, while
Annette would have followed •, but, being
lalled back, she began to talk very loud,
and laugh, and seemed afraid to trust a
pause of silence.

Caterina soon returned with the wood,
and then, when the cheerful blaze once more
animated the room, and this servant had

thdrawn, Emily asked Annette, whether
had made the inquiry she bade her.

" Yes, ma'amselle," said Annette, " but not
a soul knows any thing about the matter :
and old Carlo— I watched him well, for they
say he knows strange things — old Carlo
looked so as I don't know how to tell, and
he asked me again and again, if I was sure
the door was ever un/astened. Lord, says I
—am I sure I am alive ? And as for me,
ma'am, 1 am all astounded, as one may say,
and would no more sleep in this chamber
than I would on the great cannon at tb-e end
of the east rampart."

" And what objection have you to that
cannon more than to any of the rest ?" said
Emily, smiling : " the best would be rather
a hard bed."

" Yes, ma'amselle, any of them would be
hard enough for that matter ; but they do
say that something has been seen in the dead
of night, standing beside the great cannon,
as if to guard it."

" Well ! my good Annette, the people
who tell such stories, are hatypy in having
you for an auditor, for I perceive you be-
lieve them all."

" Dear ma'amselle ! 1 will show you the
very cannon ; you can see it from these
windows !"

« Well," said Emily, « but that does not
prove that an apparition guards it."

" What ! not if 1 show you the very can-
non ! Dear ma'am, you will believe no-
thing."

" Nothing probably upon this subject, but

what I see," said Emily. " Well, ma'am,

but you shall see it, if you will only step
this way to the casement." — Emily could
not forbear laughing, and Annette looked
surprised. Perceiving her extreme aptitude
to credit the marvellous, Emily forbore to
mention the subject she had intended, lest it
should overcome her with ideal terrors, and
she began to speak on a lively topic— the
regattas of Venice.

" Ay, ma'amselle, those rowing-matches,"
said Annette, "and the fine moon-light nights,
are ail that are worth seeing in Venice. To be
sure that moon is brighter than any I ever
saw ; and then to hear such sweet music,
too, as Ludovico has often and often sung
under the lattice by the west portico !
Ma'amselle, it was Ludovico that told me
about that picture which you wanted so to
look at last night, and — "

" What picture ?" saicj. Emily, wishing
Annette to explain herself.

" O ! that terrible picture with the black
veil over it."

" You never saw it, then ?" said Emily.

" Who, [ ! — No, ma'amselle, I never did.

But this inor

nmg.

continued Annette, low-

ering her voice, and looking round the room,
" this morning, as it was broad day-light, do
you know, ma'am, I took a strange fancy to
see it, as 1 had heard such odd hints about it,

THE 'MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO

l*>

ami I got as far as the door, and should have
opened it, if it had not been locked !"

Emily, endeavouring to conceal the emo-
tion this circumstance occasioned, inquired
at what hour she went to the chamber, and
found that it was soon after herself had been
there. She also asked further questions, and
the answers convinced her that Annette, and
probably her informer, were ignorant of the
terrible truth, though, in Annette's account,
something very like the truth now and then
mingled with the falsehood. Emily now
bggari to fear that her visits to the chamber
had been ohserved, since the door had been
closed so immediately after her departure ;
and dreaded lest this should draw upon her
the vengeance of Montoni. Her anxiety,
also, was excited to know whence, and for
what purpose, the delusive report, which
had been imposed upon Annette, had origi-
nated, since Montoni could only have wished
for silence and secresy ; but she felt that the
mbject was too terrible for this lonely hour,
and she compelled herself to leave it, to con-
verse with Annette, whose chat, simple as it
was, she preferred to the stillness of total
solitude.

Thus they sat till near midnight, but not
without many hints from Annette that she
wished to go. The embers were now nearly
ournt out •, and Emily heard, at a distance,
the thundering sound of the hall doors, as
they were shut for the night. She, there-
fore, prepared for rest, but was still unwill-
ing that Annette should leave her. At this
instant the great bell of the portal sounded.
They listened in fearful expectation, when,
after a long pause of silence, it sounded
again. Soon after they heard the noise of
carriage wheels in the court-yard. Emily
sunk almost lifeless in her chair ; " It is the
count," said she.

" What, at this time of night, ma'am !"
said Annette: " no, my dear lady. But,
for that matter, it is a strange time of night
for any body to come !"

" Nay, pr'ythee, good Annette, stay not
talking," said Emily in a voice of agony-—
u Go, pr'ythee go, and see who it is."

Annette left the room, and carried with
her the light, leaving Emily in darkness,
which a few moments before would have
terrified her in this room, but was now
scarcely observed by her. She listened and
waited in breathless expectation, and heard
distant noises, but Annette did not return.
Her patience at length exhausted, she tried
to find her way to the corridor, but it was
long before she could touch the door of the
chamber, and, when she had opened it, the
total darkness without made her fear to pro-
ceed. Voices were now heard, and Emily
even thought she distinguished those of
Count Morano and Montoni. Soon after she
heard steps approaching, and then a ray of

light streamed through the darkness, and
Annette appeared, whom Emily went to
meet.

" Yes, ma'amselle," said she, " you was
right, it is the count, sure enough."

" It is he !" exclaimed Emily, lifting her
eyes towards heaven, and supporting herself
by Annette's arm.

" Good Lord ! my dear lady, don't be in
such a, fluster, and look so pale, we shall soon
hear more."

" We shall, indeed !" said Emily, moving
as fast as she was able towards her apart-
ment. " I am not well ; give me air."
Annette opened a casement, and brought
water. The faintness soon left Emily, but
she desired Annette would not go till she
heard from Montoni.

;" Dear ma'amselle { he surely will not dis-
turb you at this time of night ; why, he must
think you are asleep."

" Stay with me till I am so, then," said
Emily, who felt temporary relief from this
suggestion, which appeared probable enough,
though her fears had prevented its occurring
to her. Annette, with secret reluctance,
consented to stay, and Emily was now com-
posed enough to ask her some questions ;
among others, whether she had seen the
count.

" Yes, ma'am, I saw him alight ; for I
went from hence to the grate in the north
turret, that overlooks the inner court-yard,
you know. There I saw the count's car-
riage, and the count in it, waiting at the
great door — for the porter was just gone to
bed — with several men on horseback, all by
the light of the torches they carried." Emily
was compelled to smile. " When the door
was opened, the count said something that
I could not make out, and then got out,
and another gentleman with him. I thought
to be sure the signor was gone to bed ; and
I hastened away to my lady's dressing-room,
to see what I could hear. But in the way
I met Ludovico, and he told me that the sig-
nor was up, counselling with his master and
the other signors in the room at the end of
the north gallery ; and Ludovico held up
his finger, and laid it on his lips, as much
as to say, There is more going on than you
think of, Annette, but you must hold your
tongue. And so I did hold my tongue,
ma'amselle, and came away to tell you di-
rectly."

Emily inquired who the cavalier was that
accompanied the count, and how Montoni
received them ; but Annette could not in-
form her.

" Ludovico," she added, " had just been
to call Signor Montoni's valet, that he might
tell him they were arrived, when I met him."

Emily sat musing for some time, and then
her anxiety was so much increased, that she
desired Annette would go to the servant*'

1*20

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

hall, where it was possible she might hear
something of the count's intention respecting
his stay at the castle.

" Yes, ma'am," said Annette, with readi-
ness ; " but how am 1 to find the way if 1
leave the lamp with you ?"

Emily said she would light her ; and they
immediately quitted the chamber. When
they had reached the top of the great stair-
case, Emily recollected that she might be
seen by the count ; and, to avoid the great
hall, Annette conducted her, through some
private passages, to a back staircase, which
led directly to that of the servants.

As she returned towards her chamber,
Emily began to fear that she might again
lose herself in the intricacies of the castle,
and again be shocked by some mysterious
spectacle ; and, though she was already per-
plexed by the numerous turnings, she feared
to open one of the many doors that offered.
While she stepped thoughtfully along, she
fancied that she heard a low moaning at no
great distance ; and, having paused a mo-
ment, she heard it again and distinctly. Se-
veral doors appeared on the right hand of
the passage. She advanced, and listened.
When she came to the second, she heard a
voice, apparently in complaint, within, to
which she continued to listen, afraid to open
the door, and unwilling to leave it. Con-
vulsive sobs followed, and then the piercing
accents of an agonizing spirit burst forth.
Emily stood appalled, and looked through
the gloom that surrounded her in fearful ex-
pectation. The lamentations continued. —
Pity now began to subdue terror : it was
possible she might administer comfort to the
sufferer, at least, by expressing sympathy ;
and she laid her hand on the door. While
she hesitated, she thought she knew this
voice, disguised as it was by tones of grief.
Having, therefore, set down the lamp in the
passage, she gently opened the door, within
which all was dark, except that from an
inner apartment a partial light appeared ;
and she stepped softly on. Before she
reached it, the appearance of Madame Mon-
toni, leaning on her dressing-table, weeping,
and with a handkerchief held to her eyes,
struck her, and she paused.

Some person was seated in a chair by the
fire, but who it was she could not distin-
guish. He spoke now and then in a low
voice, that did not allow Emily to hear what
was uttered •, but she thought that Madame
Montoni at those times wept the more, who
was too much occupied by her own distress
to observe Emily ; while the latter, though
anxious to know what occasioned this, and
who was the person admitted at so late an
hour to her aunt's dressing-room, forebore to
add to her sufferings by surprising her, or
to take advantage of her situation, by listen-
ing to a private discourse. She therefore

stepped softly* back, and, after some further
difficulty, found the way to her own cham
ber, where nearer interests at length ex-
cluded the surprise and concern she had felt
respecting Madame Montoni.

Annette, however, returned without satis
factory intelligence ; for the servants, among
whom she had been, were either entirely ig-
norant, or affected to be so, concerning the
count's intended stay at the castle. They
could. talk only of the steep and broken road
they had just passed, and of the numerous
dangers they had escaped ; and express won-
der how their lord could choose to encounter
all these in the darkness of night ; for they
scarcely allowed that the torches had served
for any other purpose but that of showing
the dreariness of the mountains. Annette,
finding she could gain no information, left
them making noisy petitions for more wood
on the fire, and more supper on the table.

" And now, ma'amselle," added she, " I
am so sleepy; I am sure, if you was so
sleepy, you would not desire me to sit up
with you."

Emily, indeed, began to think it was cruel
to wish it ; she had also waited so long with-
out receiving a summons from Montoni, that
it appeared he did not mean to disturb her
at this late hour, and she determined to dis-
miss Annette. But when she again looked
round her gloomy chamber, and recollected
certain circumstances, fear seized her spirits,
and she hesitated.

" And yet it were cruel of me to ask you
to stay till I am asleep, Annette," said she;
" for I fear it will be very long before I for-
get myself in sleep."

" I dare say it will be very long, ma'am
selle," said Annette.

" But before you go," rejoined Emily,
" let me ask you, had Signor Montoni left
Count Moreno when you quitted the hall ?"

" O no, ma'am ; they were alone together ."

" Have you been in my aunt's dressing-
room since you left me ?"

" No, ma'amselle. I called at the door as
I passed, but it was fastened; so I thought
my lady was gone to bed."

u Who, then, was with your lady just
now ?" said Emily, forgetting, in surprise,
her usual prudence.

" Nobody, I believe, ma'am," replied An-
nette j " nobody has been with her, I believe,
since I left you."

Emily took no further notice of the sub-
ject \ and, after some struggle with imagi-
nary fears, her good-nature prevailed over
them so far, that she dismissed Annette for
the night. She then sat musing upon her
own circumstances, and those of Madame
Montoni, till her eye rested on the minia-
ture picture, which she had found after her
father's death among the papers he had en-
joined her to destroy. It was open upon

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

127

the table before her, among some loose draw-
ings, having, with them, been taken out of a
little box by Emily some hours before. The
sight of it called up many interesting re-
flections, but the melancholy sweetness of
the countenance soothed the emotions which
these had occasioned. It was the same style
of countenance as that of her late father;
and, while she gazed on it with fondness on
this account, she even fancied a resemblance
in the features. But this tranquillity was
suddenly interrupted, when she recollected
the words in the manuscript that had been
found with this picture, and which had for-
merly occasioned her so much doubt and
horror. At length she roused herself from
the deep reverie into which this remem-
brance had thrown her ; but, when she rose
to undress, the silence and solitude to which
she was left, at this midnight hour, for not
even a distant sound was now heard, con-
spired with the impression the subject she
had been considering had given to her mind
to appal her. Annette's hints, too, concern-
ing this chamber, simple as they were, had
not failed to affect her ; since they followed
a circumstance of peculiar horror which she
herself had witnessed, and since the scene of
this was a chamber nearly adjoining her own.

The door of the staircase was, perhaps, a
subject of more reasonable alarm j and she
now began to apprehend, such was the ap-
titude of her fears, that this staircase had
some private communication with the apart-
ment which she shuddered even to remem-
ber. Determined not to undress, she lay
down to sleep in her clothes, with her late
father's dog, the faithful Manchon> at the
foot of the bed, whom she considered as a
kind of guard.

Thus circumstanced, she tried to banish
reflection, but her busy fancy would still
hover over the subjects of her interest, and
she heard the clock of the castle strike two
before she closed her eyes.

From the disturbed slumber into which
she then sunk, she was soon awakened by a
noise, which seemed to arise within her
chamber ; but the silence that prevailed, as
she fearfully listened, inclined her to believe
that she had been alarmed by such sounds
as sometimes occur in dreams, and she laid
her head again upon the pillow.

A return of the noise again disturbed
her ; it seemed to come from that part of
the room which communicated with the
private staircase, and she instantly remem-
bered the odd circumstance of the door
having been fastened, during the preceding
night, by some unknown hand. Her late
alarming suspicion concerning its communi-
cation also occurred to her. Her heart
became faint with terror. Half raising her-
self from the bed, and gently drawing
aside the curtain, she looked towards the

door of the staircase, but the lamp that
burnt on the hearth spread so feeble a light
through the apartment, that the remote parts
of it were lost in shadow. The noise, how-
ever, which, she was convinced, came from
the door, continued. It seemed like that
made by the undrawing of rusty bolts, and
often ceased, and was then renewed more
gently, ay if the hand that occasioned it
was restrained by a fear of discovery.
While Emily kept her eyes fixed on the spot,
she saw the door move, and then slowly
opened, and perceived something enter the
room, but the extreme duskiness prevented
her distinguishing what it was. Almost
fainting with terror, she had yet sufficient
command over herself to check the shriek
that was escaping from her lips, and letting
the curtain drop from her hand, continued
to observe in silence the motions of the
mysterious form she saw. It seemed to
glide along the remote obscurity of the
apartment, then paused, and, as it ap-
proached the hearth, she perceived, in the
stronger light, what appeared to be a human
figure. Certain remembrances now struck
upon her heart, and almost subdued the
feeble remains of her spirit ; she continued,
however, to watch the figure, which re-
mained for some time motionless, but then,
advancing slowly towards the bed, stood
silently at the feet, where the curtains, beiug
a little open, allowed her si ill to see it :
terror, however, had now deprived her of
the power of discrimination, as well as of
that of utterance.

Having continued there \ moment, the
form retreated towards the hearth, when it
took the lamp, held it up, surveyed the
chamber for a few moments, and then again
advanced towards the bed. The^ light at
that instant awakening the dog that had
slept at Emily's feet, he barked loudly, and,
jumping to the floor, flew at the stranger,
who struck the animal smartly with a sheath-
ed sword, and springing towards the bed,
Emily discovered — Count Morano !

She gazed at him for a moment in speech-
less affright, while he, throwing himself on
his knee at the bed side, besought her to
fear nothing, and, having thrown down his
sword, would have taken her hand, when
the faculties, that terror had suspended,
suddenly returned, and she sprung from the
bed in the dress which surely a kind of pro-
phetic apprehension had prevented her, on
this night, from throwing aside.

Morano rose, followed her to the door
through which he had entered, and caught
her hand as she reached the top of the stair-
case, but, not before she had discovered, by
the gleam of a lamp, another man half-way
down the steps. She now screamed in de-
spair, and, believing herself given up by
Montoni, saw, indeed, no possibility of esca pe

128

THE MYSTERIES OF UBOIJ>HO.

The count, who still held her hand, led her
back to the chamber.

« Why all this terror ?" said he, m a tre-
mulous voice. " Hear me, Emily : I come
not to alarm you ; no, by Heaven ! I love
you too v/ell — too well for my own peace."

Emily looked at him for a moment in
fearful doubt.

" Then leave me, sir," said she, " leave
me instantly."

" Hear me, Emily," resumed Morano —
" Hear me! I love, and am in despair — yes
— in despair. How can I gaze upon you,
and know that it is, perhaps, for the last
time, without suffering all the phrensy of
despair ? But it shall not be so ; you shall
be mine, in spite of Montoni and all his
villainy."

" In spite of Montoni !" cried Emily ea-
gerly : " what is it I hear ?"

" You hear that Montoni is a villain," ex-
claimed Morano with vehemence — "a vil-
lain who would have sold you to my love !
—Who— "

i " And is he less who would have bought
me ?" said Emily, fixing on the count an eye
of calm contempt. " Leave the room, sir,
instantly," she continued, in a voice trem-
bling between joy and fear, " or I will alarm
the family, and you may receive that from
Signor Montoni's vengeance which I have
vainly supplicated from his pity." But
Emily knew that she was beyond the hearing
of those who might protect her.

" You can never hope any thing from his
pity," said Morano ; " he has used me infa-
mously, and my vengeance shall pursue him.
And for you, Emily, for you, he has new
plans more profitable than the last, no
doubt." The gleam of hope which the
count's former speech had revived was now
nearly extinguished by the latter ; and while
Emily's countenance betrayed the emotions
of her mind, he endeavoured to take advan-
tage of the discovery.

" I lose time," said he ; " I came not to
exclaim against Montoni ; 1 came to solicit,
to plead—to Emily ; to tell her all I suffer,
to entreat her to save me from despair, and
herself from destruction. Emily ! the schemes
of Montoni are unsearchable, but, I warn
you, they are terrible ; he has no principle
when interest or ambition leads. Can I love
you, and abandon you to his power ? Fly,
then, fly from this gloomy prison, with a
lover who adores you ! I have bribed a ser-
vant of the castle to open the gates, and
before to-morrow's dawn you shall be far on
the way to Venice."

Emily, overcome by the sudden shock she
had received, at the moment, too, when she
had begun to hope for better days, now
thought she saw destruction surround her on
every side. | Unable to reply, and almost to
think, she threw herself into a chair, pale and

breathless. That Montoni had formerly sold
her to Morano was very probable ; that he
had now withdrawn his consent to the mar-
riage was evident from the count's present
conduct ; and it was nearly certain that a
scheme of stronger interest only could have
induced the selfish Montoni to forego a plan
which he had hitherto so strenuously pursued.
These reflections made her tremble at the hints
which Morano had just given, which she
no longer hesitated to believe ; and, while
she shrunk from the new scenes of misery
and oppression that might await her in the
castle of Udolpho, she was compelled to ob-
serve, that almost her only means of esca-
ping them was by submitting herself to the
protection of this man, with whom evils
more certain and not less terrible appeared
—evils upon which she could not endure to
pause for an instant.

Her silence, though it was that of agony,
encouraged the hope of Morano, who watched
her countenance with impatience, took
again the resisting hand she had withdrawn,
and, as he pressed it to his heart, again con-
jured her to determine immediately. " Every
moment we lose will make our departure
more dangerous," said he : " these few mo-
ments lost may enable Montoni to overtake
us."

" I beseech you, sir, be silent," said Emily
faintly : " I am indeed very wretched, and
wretched I must remain. Leave me — 1
command you, leave me to my fate."

" Never !" cried the count vehemently :
<l let me perish first ! But forgive my vio-
lence ; the thought of losing you is madness.
You cannot be ignorant of Montoni's cha-
racter }, you may be ignorant of his schemes
—nay, you must be so, or you would not
hesitate between my love and his power."

" Nor do I hesitate," said Emily.

" Let us go then," said Morano, eagerly
kissing her hand, and rising : " my carriage
waits below the castle walls."

"You mistake me, sir," said Emily.
u Allow me to thank you for the interest
you express in my welfare, and to decide by
my own choice. I shall remain under the
protection of Signor Montoni."

" Under his protection !" exclaimed Morano
proudly, " his protection ! Emily, why will
you suffer yourself to be thus deluded ? I
have already told you what you have to ex-
pect from his protection?''

" And pardon me, sir, if, in this instance,
I doubt mere assertion, and, to be convinced,
require something approaching to proof."

" I have now neither the time nor the
means of adducing proof," replied the count.

" Nor have I, sir, the inclination to listen
to it, if you had."

" But you trifle with my impatience and
my distress," continued Morano. •' Is a
marriage with a man who adores you so

THF. MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

129

*xry terrible in your eyes, that you would
prefer to it all the misery to which Montoni
may condemn you in this remote prison ?
Some wretch must have stolen those affec-
tions which ought to be mine, <*• you could
not thus obstinately persist in refusing an
offer that would place you beyond the reach
of oppression." Morano walked about the
room with quick steps and a disturbed air.

" This discourse, Count Morano, suffi-
ciently proves that my affections ought not
to be your's," said Emily mildly ; " and this
conduct, that I should not be placed beyond
the reach of oppression, so long as I re-
mained in your power. If you wish me to
believe otherwise, cease to oppress me any
longer by your presence. If you refuse this,
you will compel me to expose you fc> the
resentment of Signor Montoni."

" Yes, let him come," cried Morano furi-
ously, "and brave my resentment! Let
him dare to face once more the man he has
so courageously injured ; danger shall teach
him morality, and vengeance justice— let
him come, and receive my sword in his
heart." •

The vehemence with which this was ut-
tered gave Emily new cause of alarm, who
rose from her chair, but her trembling
frame refused to support her, and she resu-
med her seat, — the words died on her lips,
and, when she looked wistfully towards the
door of the corridor, which was locked, she
considered it was impossible for her to leave
the apartment before Morano would be ap-
prised of, and able to counteract, her inten-
tion.

Without observing her agitation, he con-
tinued to pace the room in the utmost per-
turbation of spirits. His darkened coun-
tenance expressed all the rage of jealousy
and revenge ; and a person who had seen
his features under the smile of ineffable ten-
derness, which he so lately assumed, would
now scarcely have believed them to be the
same.

"Count Morano," said Emily, at length
recovering her voice, " calm, I entreat you,
these transports, and listen to reason, if you
will not to pity. You have equally mis-
placed your love, and your hatred. I never
could have returned the affection with which
you honour me, and certainly have never
encouraged it 5 neither has Signor Montoni
injured you, for you must have known that
he had no right to dispose of my hand, had
he even possessed the power to do so.
I^eave, then, leave the castle, while you may
with safety. Spare yourself the dreadful
consequences of an unjust revenge, and the
remorse of having prolonged to me these
moments of sufferings."

" Is it for mine or for Montoni's safety
that you are thus alarmed ?" said Morano,

coldly, and turning towards her with a look
of acrimony.

" For both," replied Emily, in a trembling
voice.

M Unjust revenge !" cried the count, re-
suming the abrupt tones of passion. " Win >,
that looks upon that face, can imagine a
punishment adequate to the inj ury he would
have done me ? Yes, I will leave the castle ;
but it shall not be alone. I have trifled too
long. Since my prayers and my sufferings
cannot prevail, force shall. I have people in
waiting who shall convey you to my carriage.
Your voice will bring no succour 5 it cannot
be heard from this remote part of the castle ;
submit, therefore, in silence to go with me."

This was an unnecessary injunction at
present ; for Emily was too certain that her
call would avail her nothing ; and terror had
so entirely disordered her thoughts, that slue
knew not how to plead to Morano, but sat
mute and trembling in her chair, till he ad
vanced to lift her from it, when she suddenly
raised herself, and, with a repulsive gesture,
and a countenance of forced serenity, said,
" Count Morano ! I am now in your power j
but you will observe, that this is not the
conduct which can win the esteem you appear
so solicitous to obtain, and that you are pre-
paring for yourself a load of remorse, in the
miseries of a friendless orphan, which can
never leave you. Do you believe your heart
to be, indeed, so hardened, that you can
look without emotion on the suffering to
which you would condemn me ?"

Emily was interrupted by the grow An g of
the dog, who now came again from the bed,
and Morano looked towards the door of the
staircase, where no person appearing, he
called aloud, " Cesario !"

" Emily," said the count, " why will you
reduce me to adopt this conduct ? How
much more willingly would I persuade, than
compel you to become my wife! but, by
Heaven ! 1 will not leave you to be sold by
Montoni. Yet a thought glances across my
mind, that brings madness with it. I ki ow
not how to name it. It is preposterous— it
cannot be. — Yet you tremble — you grow
pale ! It is ! it is so ;— you— you— love
Montoni !" cried Morano, grasping Emi ly\s
wrist, and stamping his foot on the floor .

An involuntary air of surprise appeared
on her countenance. " If you have indeed
believed so," said she, " believe so still."

" That look, those words, confirm it"
exclaimed Morano, furiously. " No, no, no,
Montoni had a richer prize in view than gold.
But he shall not live to triumph over me !
—This very instant—-"

He was interrupted by the loud barking
of the dog.

" Stay, Count Morano," said Emily, ten i-
fied by his words and by the fury expressed

in his eyes, " 1 will save you from this error.
— Of all men, Signor Montoni is not your
rival ; though if I find all other means of
saving myself vain, I will try whether my
voice may not arouse his servants to my
succour."

" Assertion," replied Morano, " at such a
moment, is not to be depended upon. How
could I suffer myself to doubt, even for an
instant, that he could see you, and not love?
— But my first care shall be to convey you
from the castle. Cesario ! ho, — Cesario !"

A man now appeared at the door of the
staircase, and other steps were heard
ascending. Emily uttered a loud shriek, as
Morano hurried her across the chamber,
and, at the same moment, she heard a noise
at the door that opened upon the corridor.
The count paused an instant, as if his mind
was suspended between love and the desire
of vengeance j and in that instant, the door
gave way, and Montoni, followed by the old
steward and several other persons, burst
into the room.

" Draw !" cried Montoni to the count,
who did not pause for a second bidding,
but giving Emily into the hands of the
people that appeared from the staircase,
turned fiercely round. " Tnis in thine
neart, villain !" said he, as he made a thrust
at Montoni with his sword, who parried the
blow, and aimed another, while some of the
persons, who had followed him into the
room, endeavoured to part the combatants,
and others rescued Emily from the hands of
M<oraaors servants.

* Was it for this, Count Morano," said
Montoni, in a cool sarcastic tone of voice,
" that I received you under my roof, and
permitted you, though my declared enemy,
to remain under it for the night ? Was it
that you might -repay my hospitality with
the treachery of a fiend, and rob me of my
niece ?"

" Who talks of treachery ?" said Morano
in a tone of unrestrained vehemence. " Let
him that does, show an unblushing face of
innocence. Montoni, you are a villain!
If there is treachery in this affair, look to
yourself as the author of it. If— do I say >
/ — whom you have wronged with unexam-
pled baseness, whom you have injured
almost beyond redress ! — But why do I use
words ! — Come on, coward, and receive jus-
tice at my hands !"

" Coward !" cried Montoni, bursting from
the people who held him, and rushing on
the count ; when they both retreated into
the corridor, where the fight continued so
desperately, that none of the spectators
dared approach them, Montoni swearing,
that the first who interfered should fall by
his sword.

Jealousy and revenge lent all their fury
to Morano, while the superior skill and the
temperance of Montoni enabled him to
wound his adversary, whom his servants
now attempted to seize, but he would not
be restrained, and, regardless of his wound,
continued to fight. lie seemed to be insen-
sible both of pain and los9 of blood, and
alive only to the energy of hb passions.

IJQ

Till: MYSTERIES OF UDOLPIIO.

!31

.Viuntoni, on the contrary, persevered in
the combat, with a fierce yet wary valour;
he received the point of Morano's sword on
his arm, but, almost in the same instant,
severely wounded and disarmed him. The
count then fell back into the arms of his
servant, while Montoni held his sword over
him, and -bade him ask his life. Morano,
sinking* under the anguish of his wound,
had scarcely replied by a gesture, and by a
few words feebly articulated, that he would
not,— when he fainted ; and Montoni was
then going to have plunged the sword into
his breast, as he lay senseless, but his arm
was arrested by Cavigni. To the interrup-
tion he yielded without much difficulty, but
his complexion changed almost to blackness,
as he looked upon his fallen adversary, and
ordered that he should be carried instantly
from the castle.

In the mean time Emily, who had been
withheld from leaving the chamber during
the affray, now came forward into the cor-
ridor, and pleaded a cause* of common
humanity, with,the feelings of the warmest
benevolence, when she entreated Montoni
to allow Morano the assistance in the castle
which his situation required. But Montoni,
who had seldom listened to pity, now seen>
etl rapacious of vengeance, and, with a
monster's cruelty, again ordered his defeated
enemy to be taken from the castle, in his
present state, though there were only the
woods, or a solitary neighbouring cottage,
to shelter him from the night.

The count's servants having declared that
they would not move him till he revived,
Montoni stood inactive, Cavigni remonstra-
ting, and Emily, superior to Montoni's
menaces, giving water to Morano, and di-
recting the attendants to bind up his wound.
At length Montoni had leisure to feel pain
from his own hurt, and he withdrew to exa-
mine it.

The count, meanwhile, having slowly
recovered, the first object he saw, on raising
his eyes, was Emily, bending over him with
a countenance strongly expressive of solici-
tude. He surveyed her with a look of
anguish.

" 1 have deserved this," said he, " but
not from Montoni. It is from you, Emily,
that I have deserved punishment, yet I
receive only pity !" He paused, for he had
spoken with difficulty. After a moment,
he proceeded. " I must resign you, but
not to Montoni. Forgive me the suffer-
ings I have already occasioned you ! But
for that villain — his infamy shall not go
unpunished. Carry me from this place,"
said he to his servants. " I am in no condi-
tion to travel ; you must, therefore, take me
to the nearest cottage, tor I will not pass
tlie night under his roof, although I may
expire On the way from it."

Cesano proposed to go out, and inquire
for a cottage that might receive his master
before he attempted to remove him : but
Morano was impatient to be gone ; the an-
guish of his mind seemed to be even greater
than that of his wound, and he rejected,
with disdain, the offer of Cavigni to entreat
Montoni that he might be suffered to pass
the night in the castle. Cesario was now
going to call up the carriage to the great
gate, but the count forbade him. " I can-
not bear the motion of a carriage," said he
" call some others of my people, that they
may assist in bearing me in their arms."

At length, however, Morano submitted
to reason, and consented that Cesario should
first prepare some cottage to receive him
Emily, now that he had recovered his senses,
was about to withdraw from the corridor,
when a message from Montoni commanded
her to do so, and also that the count, if he
was not already gone, should quit the castle
immediately. * Indignation flashed from
Morano's eye?, and flushed his cheeks. "

"Tell Montoni, said he, "that I shall *o
when it suits my own convenience ; that f
quit the castle he dares to call his, as 1
would the nest of a serpent, and that this is
not the last he shall hear from me. Trll
him, I will not leave another murder on his
conscience, if I can help it."

" Count Morano ! do you know wha.
you say ?" said Cavigni.

u Yes, signor; I know well what I say
and he will understand well what I nieau
His conscience will assist his understandit .<*
on this occasion."

" Count Morano," said Verezzi, who had
hitherto silently observed him, " dare again
to insult my friend, and I will plunge, this
sword in your body."

" It would be an action worthy the friend
of a villain!" said Morano, as the strong
impulse of his indignation enabled him to
raise himself from the arms of his servants ■
but the energy was momentary, and he
sunk back exhausted by the effort. Mon-
toni's people, meanwhile, held Verezzi,
who seemed inclined, even in this instant,
to execute his threats; and Cavigni, who
was not so depraved as to abet the cowardly
malignity of Verezzi, endeavoured to with-
draw him from the Corridor; and Emily,
whom a compassionate interest l>ad thus
long detained, was now quitting it in new
terror, when the supplicating voice of Mo-
rano arrested her, and, by a feeble gesture,
he beckoned her to draw nearer. She ad-
vanced with timid steps, but the fainting
languor of his countenance again awakened
her pity, and overcame her terror.

" I am going from hence for ever, said
he ; " perhaps J shall never see you* again
I would carry with me your forgiveness,
Emily; nay more- — I would also carry your
good Irishes."

132

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

" You have my forgiveness then," said
Emily, and my sincere wishes for your
recovery."

" And only for my recovery," said Mo-
rano, with a sigh. " For your general wel-
fare," added Emily.

" Perhaps I ought to be contented with
this," he resumed 5 " I certainly have not
deserved more ; but I would ask you, Emily,
sometimes to think of me, and, forgetting
my offence, to remember only the passion
which occasioned it. I would ask, alas !
impossibilities-, I would ask you to love
me ! At this moment, when I am about to
part with you, and that perhaps for ever, I
am scarcely myself. Emily — may you
never know the torture of a passion like
mine ! What do I say ? O that, for me,
you might be sensible of such a passion !"

Emily looked impatient to be gone. " I
entreat you, count, to consult your own
safety," said she, " and linger here no
longer. I tremble for the consequences of
iSignor Verezzi's passion, and of Montoni's
resentment, should he learn that you are
still here."

Morano's face was overspread with a
momentary crimson, his eyes sparkled, but
he seemed endeavouring to conquer his
emotion, and replied in a calm voice :
" Since you are interested for my safety, 1
will regard it, and be gone. But, before I
go, let me again hear you say that you
wish me well," said he, fixing on her an
earnest and mournful look.

Emily repeated her assurances. He took
her hand, which she scarcely attempted to
withdraw, and put it to his lips. " Fare-
well, Count Morano !" said Emily ; and she
turned to go, when a second message arrived
from Montoni, and she again conjured
Morano, as he valued his life, to quit the
castle immediately. He regarded her in
silence, with a look of fixed despair. But
she had no time to enforce her compassion-
ate entreaties, and, not daring to disobey
the second command of Montoni, she left
the corridor to attend him.

He was in the cedar parlour, that adjoin-
ed the great hall, laid upon a couch, and
suffering a degree of anguish from his
wound, which few persons could have dis-
guised as he did. His countenance, which
was stern but calm, expressed the dark
passion of revenge, but no symptom of
pain ; bodily pain, indeed, he had always
despised, and had yielded only to the strong
and terrible energies of the soul. He was
attended by old Carlo, and by Signor Berto-
lini, but Madame Montoni was not with
him.

Emily trembled as she approached and
received his severe rebuke, for not haying
obeyed his first summons ; and perceived
also, that he attributed her stay in the cor-

ridor to a motive that had not even occurred
to her artless mind.

" This is an instance of female caprice,"
said he, " which I ought to have foreseen.
Count Morano, whose suit you obstinately
rejected, so long as it was countenanced by
me, you favour, it seems, since you find I
have dismissed him."

Emily looked astonished. " I do not
comprehend you, sir," said she : " You cer-
tainly do not mean to imply, that the design
of the count to visit the double chamber
was founded upon any approbation of mine."

"To that I reply nothing," said Mon-
toni ; " but it must certainly be a more
than common interest that made you plead
so warmly in his cause, and that could de-
tain you thus long in his presence, contrary
to my express order — in the presence of a
man whom you have hitherto on all occa-
sions most scrupulously shunned !"

" I fear, sir, it was more than common in-
terest that detained me," said Emily, calmly ;
" for of late I have been inclined to think
that of compassion is an uncommon one.
But how could I, could you, sir, witness
Count Morano's deplorable condition, and
not wish to relieve it ?"

"You add hypocrisy to caprice," said
Montoni, frowning, " and an attempt at
satire to both ; but, before you undertake
to regulate the morals of other persons,
you should learn and practise the virtues,
which are indispensable to a woman — sin-
cerity, uniformity of conduct, and obedience."

Emily, who had always endeavoured to
regulate her conduct by the nicest lawe,
and whose mind was finely sensible, not
only of what is just in morals, but of what-
ever is beautiful in the female character,
was shocked by these words : yet, in the
next moment, her heart swelled with the
consciousness of having: deserved praise in-
stead of censure, and she was proudly silent.
Montoni, acquainted with the delicacy of
her mind, knew how keenly she would feel
his rebuke ; but he was a stranger to the
luxury of conscious worth* and, therefore,
did not foresee the energy of that sentiment,
which now repelled his satire. Turning to
a servant who had lately entered the room,
he asked whether Morano had quitted the
castle. The man answered, that his ser-
vants were then removing him, on a couch,
to a neighbouring cottage. Montoni seemed
somewhat appeased on hearing this ; and,
when Ludovico appeared, a few moments
after, and said that Morano was gone, he
told Emily she might retire to her apartment.

She withdrew willingly from his presence ;
but the thought of passing the remainder
of the night in a chamber^ which the door
from the staircase made liable to the intru-
sion of any person now alarmed her more
than ever, and she determined to call af

THE MVSTERIKS OF UJDOLPflO.

13:

Madame Montoni's room, and request that
Annette might be permitted to be with her.
On reaching the great gallery, she heard
voices seemingly in dispute, and, her spirits
now apt to take alarm, she paused, but
soon distinguished some words of Cavigni
and Verezzi, and went towards them in the
hope of conciliating their difference. They
were alone. Verezzi's face was still flushed
with rage 5 and, as the first object of it
was now removed from him, he appeared
willing to transfer his resentment to Cavigni,
who seemed to be expostulating, rather than
disputing with him.

Verezzi was protesting, that he would in-
stantly inform Montoni of the insult which
Morano had thrown out against him, and,
above all, that wherein he had accused him
of murder.

"There is no answering," said Cavigni,
u for the words of a man in a passion j
little serious regard ought to be paid to
them. If you persist in your resolution,
the consequences may be fatal to both.
We have now more serious interests to pur-
sue than those of a petty revenge."

Emily joined her entreaties to Cavigni's
arguments, and they, at length, prevailed
so far, as that Verezzi consented to retire
without seeing Montoni.

On calling at her aunt's apartment, she
found it fastened. In a few minutes, how-
ever, it was opened by Madame Montoni
herself.

It may be remembered, that it was by
a door leading into the bed-room from a
back passage, that Emily had secretly en-
tered a few hours preceding. She now con-
jectured, by the calmness of Madame Mon-
toni's air, that she was not apprised of the
accident which had befallen her husband,
and was beginning to inform her of it, in
the tenderest manner she could, when her
aunt interrupted her, by saying, she was
acquainted with the whole affair.

Emily knew, indeed, that she had little
reason to love Montoni, but could scarcely
have believed her capable of such perfect
apathy, as she now discovered towards him ;
having obtained permission, however, for
Annette to sleep in her chamber, she went
thither immediately.

A track of blood appeared along the cor-
ridor leading to it j and on the spot where
the count and Montoni had fought, the whole
floor was stained. Emily shuddered, and
leaned on Annette as she passed. When
she reached her apartment, she instantly de-
termined, since tie door of the staircase
had been left open, and that Annette was
now with her, to explore whither it led,—
a circumstance now materially connected
with her own safety. Annette accordingly,
half curious, and half afraid, proposed to
descend the stairs j but, on approaching the

door> they perceived that it was already fas
tened without, and their care was then di-
rected to the securing it on the inside also,
by placing against it as much of the heavy
furniture of the room as they could lift.
Emily then retired to bed, and Annette con-
tinued on a chair by the hearth, where some
feeble embers remained.

CHAP. XX.

" Of aery tongues, that syllable men s names
On sands and shores and desert wildernesses/'

MILTON.

It is now necessary to mention some cir-
cumstances, which could not be related
amidst the events of Emily's hasty depar-
ture from Venice, or together with those
which so rapidly succeeded to her arrival in
the castle.

On the morning of her journey, Count
Morano had gone at the appointed hour to
the mansion of Montoni, to demand his
bride. When he reached it, he was some-
what surprised by the silence and solitary
air of the portico where Montoni's lacqueys
usually loitered 5 but surprise was soon
changed to astonishment, and astonishment
to the rage of disappointment, when the door
was opened by an old woman, who told his
servants that her master and his family had
left Venice, early in the morning, for Terra*
fir ma. Scarcely believing what his servants
told, he left his gondola, and rushed into the
hall to inquire further. The old woman,
who was the only person left in care of the
mansion, persisted in her story, which the
silent and deserted apartments soon con-
vinced him was no fiction. He then seized
her with a menacing air, as if he meant to
wreak all his vengeance upon her, at the
same time asking her twenty questions in a
breath, and all these with a gesticulation so
furious, that she was deprived of the power
of answering them; then suddenly letting
her go, he stamped about the hall, like a
madman, cursing Montoni and his own
folly.

When the good woman was at liberty,
and had somewhat recovered from her fright,
she told him all she knew of the affair,
which was, indeed, very little, but enough
to enable Morano to discover that Montoni
was gone to his castle on the Apennine.
Thither he followed, as soon as his servants
could complete the necessary preparation
for the journey, accompanied by a friend,
and attended by a number of his people, de»
termined to obtain Emily, or a full revenge
on Montoni. When his mind had recovered
from the first effervescence of rage, and his
thoughts became less obscured, his consci-
ence hinted to him certain circumstances,
which, in some measure, explained the con-
duct of Montoni : but how the latter could

134

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHa

have been led to suspect an intention, which
he had believed was known only to himself,
he could not even guess. On this occasion,
however, he had been partly betrayed by that
sympathetic intelligence, which may be said
to exist between bad minds, and which
teaches one man to judge what another will
do in the same circumstances. Thus it was
with Montoni, who had now received indis-
putable proof of a truth, which he had some
time suspected — that Morano's circum-
stances, instead of being affluent, as he had
been bidden to believe, were greatly involv-
ed. Montoni had been interested in his suit
by motives entirely selfish, those of avarice
and pride ; the last of which would have
been gratified by an alliance with a Venetian
nobleman, the former by Emily's estate in
Gascony, which he had stipulated, as the
price of his favour, should be delivered up
to him from the day of her marriage. In
the mean time, he had been led to suspect
the consequence of the count's boundless
extravagance ; but it was not till the even-
ing preceding the intended nuptials, that he
obtained certain information of his distressed
circumstances. He did not hesitate then to
infer, that Morano designed to defraud him
of Emily's estate ; and in this supposition
he was confirmed, and with apparent reason,
by the subsequent conduct of the count,
who after having appointed to meet him on
that night, for the purpose of signing the in-
strument, which was to secure to him his
reward, failed in his engagement. Such a
circumstance, indeed, in a man of Morano's
gay and thoughtless character, and at a time
when his mind was engaged by the bustle of
preparation for his nuptials, might have been
attributed to a cause less decisive than de-
sign : but Montoni did not hesitate an in-
stant to interpret it his own way, and after
vainly waiting the count's arrival for several
hours, he gave orders for his people to be in
readiness to set off at a moment's notice. By
hastening to Udolpbo, he intended to remove
Emily from the reach of Morano, as well as
to break off the affair, without submitting
himself to useless altercation : and if the count
meant what he called honourably, he would
doubtless follow Emily, and sign the writings
in question. If this was done, so little consi-
deration had Montoni for her welfare, that
he would not have scrupled to sacrifice her
to a man of ruined fortune, since by that
means he could enrich himself ; and he for-
bore to mention to her the motive of his sud-
den journey, lest the hope it might revive
should render her more intractable when
submission would be required.

With these considerations he had left Ve-
nice ; and, with others totally different,
Morano had soon after pursued his steps
across the rugged Apennines. When his ar-
rival was announced at the castle, Montoni

did not believe that he would have presutticxl
to show himself, unless he had meant to ful-
fil his engagement, and he, therefore, readily
admitted him 5 but the enraged countenance
and expressions of Morano, as he entered the
apartment, instantly undeceived him 5 and,
when Montoni had explained, in part, the
motives of his abrupt departure from Venice,
the count still persisted in demanding Emi-
ly, and reproaching Montoni, without even
naming the former stipulation.

Montoni, at length weary of the dispute,
deferred the settling of it till the morrow,
and Morano retired with some hope, sug-
gested by Montoni's apparent indecision.
When, however, in the silence of his own
apartment, he beran to consider the past
conversation, the character of Montoni, and
some former instances of his du plicity,the hope
which he had admitted vanished, and he de-
tei-mined not to neglect the present possibi-
lity of obtaining Emily by other means. To
his confidential valet he told his design of
carrying away Emily ; and sent him back
to Montoni's servants to find out one among
them who might enable him to execute it.
The choice of this person he entrusted to
the fellow's own discernment, and not im-
prudently ; for he discovered a man whom
Montoni had on some former occasion treat-
ed harshly, and who was now ready to be-
tray him. This man conducted Cesar io
round the castle through a private passage,
to the staircase that led to Emily's cham-
ber ; then showed him a short way out of
the building, and afterwards procured him
the keys that would secure his retreat. The
man was well rewarded for his trouble :
how the count was rewarded for his treachery
has already appeared.

Meanwhile, old Carlo had overheard two
of Morano's servants, who had been ordered
to be in waiting with the carriage beyond
the castle walls, expressing their surprise at
their master's sudden and secret departure,
for the valet had entrusted them with no
more of Morano's designs than it was neces
sary for them to execute. They, however,
indulged themselves in surmises, and in ex*
pressing them to each other, and from these
Carlo had drawn a just conclusion. But
before he ventured to disclose his apprehen-
sions to Montoni, he endeavoured to obtain
further confirmation of them, and for this
purpose placed himself, with one of his fel-
low-servants, at the door of Emily's apart-
ment that opened upon the corridor. He
did not watch long in vain, though the
growling of the dog had oace nearly betray-
ed him. When he was convinced that Mo-
rano was in the room, and had listened long
enough to his conversation to understand his
scheme, he immediately alarmed Montoni,
and thus rescued Emily from the designs of
the count.

HE MYSFKRIKS OF tJDOLlHlO.

iaa

Montoni on the following morning ap
peared as usual, except that he wore his
wounded arm in a sling ; he weut out upon
the ramparts, overlooked the men employed
in repairing them, gave orders for additional
workmen, and then came into the castle to
give audience to several persons who were
just arrived, and who were shown into a pri-
vate apartment, where he communicated
with them for near an hour. Carlo was then
summoned, and ordered to conduct the
strangers to a part of the castle which, in
former times, had been occupied by the up-
per servants of the family, and to provide
them with every necessary refreshment.—
When he had done this, he was bidden to re-
turn to his master.

Meanwhile the count remained in a cot-
tage in the skirts of the woods oelow, suffer-
ing under bodily and mental pain, and me-
ditating deep revenge against Montoni. His
servant, whom he had dispatched for a sur-
geon to the nearest town, which was, how-
ever, at a considerable distance, did not re-
turn till the following day, when, his wounds
being examined and dressed, the practitioner
refused to deliver any positive opinion con-
cerning the degree of danger attending them;
but giving his patient a composing draught,
and ordering him to be kept quiet, remain-
ed at the cottage to watch the event.

Emily, for the remainder of the late
eventful night, had been suffered to sleep
undisturbed ; and when her mind recovered
from the confusion of slumber, and she re-
membered that she was now released from
the addresses of Count Morano, her spirits
were suddenly relieved from a part of the
terrible anxiety that had long oppressed
them; that which remained arose chiefly
from a recollection of Morano's assertions
concerning the schemes of Montoni. He
had said, that the plans of the latter con-
cerning Emily were unsearchable, yet that
he knew them to be terrible. At the time
he uttered this, she almost believed it to be
designed for the purpose of prevailing with
her to throw herself into his protection, and
she still thought it might be chiefly so ac-
counted for; but his assertions had left an
impression on her mind, which a considera-
tion of the character and former conduct of
Montoni-did not contribute to efface. She,
however, checked her propensity to antici-
pate evil ; and, determined to enjoy this re-
spite from actual misfortune, tried to dis-
miss thought, took her instruments for
drawing, and placed herself at a window, to
select into a landscape some features of the
scenery without.

As she was thus employed, she saw walk-
ing on the rampart below the men who had
so lately arrived at the castle. The sight
of strangers surprised her, but still more
of strangers such as these. There was a
singularity in their dress, and a certain

fierceness in their air, that fixed all her at-
tention. She withdrew from the casement
while they passed, but soon returned to ob-
serve them further. Their figures seemed
so well suited to the wildness of the sur-
rounding objects, that, as they stood survey-
ing the castle, she sketched them for ban-
ditti, amid the mountain-view of her pic-
ture ; when she had finished which, she was
surprised to observe the spirit of her group.
But she had copied from nature.

Carlo, when he had placed refreshment be-
fore these men in the apartment assigned to
them, returned, as he was ordered, to Mon-
toni, who was anxious to discover by what
servant the keys of the castle had been deli-
vered to Morano on the preceding night.
But this man, though he was too faithful to
his master, quietly to see him injured, would
not betray a fellow-servant even to justice;
he therefore pretended to be ignorant who it
was that had conspired with Count Morano,
and related as before, that he had only over-
heard some of the strangers describing the
plot.

Montoni's suspicions naturally fell upon
the porter, whom he ordered now to attend.
Carla hesitated, and then with slow steps
went to seek him.

Barnardine, the porter, denied the accusa-
tion with a countenance so steady and un-
daunted, that Montoni could scarcely believe
him guilty, though he knew not how to think
him innocent. At length the man was dis-
missed from his presence, and, though the
real offender, escaped detection*

Montoni then went to his wife's apart-
ment, whither Emily followed soon after,
but, finding them in high dispute, was in-
stantly leaving the room,, when her aunt
called her back, and desired her to stay. —
" You shall be a witness," said she, " of my
opposition. Now, sir,, repeat the command
I have so often refused to obey."

Montoni turned with a stern countenance
to Emily, and bade her quit the apartment,
while his wife persisted in desiring that she
would stay. Emily was eager to escape
from this scene of contention, and anxious,
also, to serve her aunt ; but she despaired
of conciliating Montoni, in whose eyes the
rising tempest of his soul flashed terribly.

" Leave the room," said he, in a voice of
thunder, Emily obeyed, and, walking down
to the rampart which the strangers had now
left, continued to meditate on the unhappy
marriage of her father's sister, and on her (
own desolate situation, occasioned by the
ridiculous imprudence of her whom she had
always wished to respect and love. Ma-
dame Montoni's conduct had, indeed, ren-
dered it impossible for Emily to do either ;
but her gentle heart was touched by her dis-
tress, and, in the pity thus awakened, she
forgot the injurious treatment she had re-
ceived from her*

136

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

As she sauntered on the rampart, Annette
appeared at the hall door, looked cautiously
round, and then advanced to meet her.

• Dear ma'amselle, I have been looking
for you all over the castle," said she. " If you
will step this way I will show you a picture."

" A picture!" exclaimed Emily, and shud-
dered.

- " Yes, ma'am, a picture of the late lady
of this place. Old Carlo just now told me
it was her, and I thought you would be cu-
rious to see it. As to my lady, you know,
ma'amselle, one cannot talk about such
things to her."

" And so," said Emily, smilingly, " as
you must talk of them to somebody — "

" Why, yes, ma'amselle 5 what can one do
in such a place as this if one must not talk ?
If I was in a dungeon, if they would let me
talk — it would be some comfort; nay, I
would talk, if it was only to the walls. But
come, ma'amselle, we lose time — let me
show you to the picture."

" Is it veiled ?" said Emily, pausing.

" Dear ma'amselle !" said Annette, fixing
her eyes on Emily's face, " what makes you
look so pale ? — are you ill ?"

" No, Annette, I am well enough, but I
have no desire to see this picture 5 return
into the hall."

" What ! ma'am, not to see the lady of
this castle ?" said the girl — " the lady who
disappeared so strangely? Wrell ! now, I
would have run to the furthest mountain we
can see, yonder, to have got a sight of such
a picture; and, to speak my mind, that
strange story is all that makes me care about
this old castle, though it make me thrill all
over, as it were, whenever I think of it."

" Yes, Annette, you love the wonderful ;
but do you know that, unless you guard
against this inclination, it will lead you into
ail ihe misery of superstition !"

Annette might have smiled in her turn, at
this sage observation of Emily, who could
tremble with ideal terrors as much as her-
self, and listen almost as eagerly to the re*
cital of a mysterious story. Annette urged
her request.

" Are you sure it is a picture ?" said
Emily. " Have you seen it ? — Is it veiled ?"

" Holy Maria ! ma'amselle^ yes, no, yes.
1 am sure it is a picture — I have seen it, and
it is not veiled."

The tone and look of surprise with which
this was uttered, recalled Emily's prudence ;
who concealed her emotion under a smile,
and bade Annette lead her to the picture.
It was in an obscure chamber adjoining that
part of the castle allotted to the servants.
Several other portraits hung on the walls,
covered like this with dust and cobweb.

" That is it, ma'amselle^" said Annette,
in a low voice, and pointing. Emily ad-
I tanced, and surveyed the picture. It re

presented a lady in the flower of youth and
beauty; her features were handsome and
noble, full of strong expression, but had
little of the captivating sweetness that Emily
had looked for, and still less of the pensive
mildness she loved. It was a countenance
which spoke the language of passion rather
than that of sentiment ; a haughty impa
tienCe of misfortune, not the placid melan
choly of a spirit injured, yet resigned.

" How many years have passed since this
lady disappeared, Annette ?" said Emily.

" Twenty years, ma'amselle, or there-
about, as they tell me ; I know it is a long
while ago." Emily continued to gaze upon
the portrait.

" I think," resumed Annette, " the signor
would do well to hang it in a better place
than this old chamber. Now, in my mind,
he ought to place the picture of a lady, who
gave him all these riches, in the handsomest
room in the castle. But he may have good
reasons for what he does ; and some people
do say, that he has lost his riches as well as
his gratitude. But hush, ma'am, not a
word !" added Annette, laying her finger on
her lips. Emily was too much absorbed in
thought to hear what she said.

" 'Tis a handsome lady, I am sure," con-
tinued Annette : " the signor need not be
ashamed to put her in the great apartment,
where the veiled picture hangs." Emily
turned round. "But for that matter, she
would be as little seen there as here, for the
door is always locked, I find,"

" Let us leave the chamber," said' Emily,
" and let me caution you again, Annette ;
be guarded in your conversation, and never ,v
tell that you know any thing of that picture."

" Holy Mother !" exclaimed Annette, " it
is no secret ; why, all the servants have seen
it already."

Emily started. " How is this ?" said she.
" Have seen it ! When ?— how 2"

" Dear ma'amselle, there is nothing sur-
prising in that"; we had all a little more cu-
riousness than you had."

" 1 thought you told me the door was
kept locked ?" said Emily.

" If that was the case, ma'amselle," re-
plied Annette, looking about her, "how
could we get here ?"

" O, you mean this picture," said Emily,
with returning calmness. " Well, Annette,
here is nothing more to engage my atten-
tion ; we will go."

Emily, as she passed to her own apart-
ment, saw Montoni go down to the hall, and
she turned into her aunt's dressing-room,
whom she found weeping and alone, grief
and resentment struggling on her counte-
nance ; pride had hitherto restrained com-
plaint. Judging of Emily's disposition from
her own, and from a consciousness of what
her treatment of her deserved, she had be,-

THE MYSTERIES OP UDOLPHO.

137

tlevcd that her griefs would be cause of tri-
umph to her niece, rather than of sympathy ;
that she would despise, not pity her. But
she knew not the tenderness and benevolence
of Emily's heart, that had always taught her
to forget her own injuries in the misfortunes
of her enemy. The sufferings of others,
whoever they might be, called forth her ready
compassion, which dissipated at once every
obscuring cloud to goodness, that passion or
prejudice might have raised in her mind.

Madame Montoni*s sufferings at length
rose above her pride ; and, when Emily had
before entered the room, she would have told
them all, had not her husband prevented
her : now that she was no longer restrained
by his presence, she poured forth all her
complaints to her niece.

" O Emily !" she exclaimed, " I am the
most wretched of women — I am indeed cru-
elly treated ! Who, with my prospects of
happiness, could have foreseen such a wretch-
ed fate as this ? Who could have thought,
when I married such a man as the signor,
that I should ever have to bewail my lot ?
But there is no judging what is for the best
— there is no knowing what is for our good !
The most flattering prospects often change
-—the best judgments may be deceived.—
Who could have foreseen, when I married
the signor, that I should ever repent my ge-
nerosity .'

Emily thought she might have foreseen
it j but this was not a thought of triumph.
She placed herself in a chair near her aunt,
took her hand, and, with one of those looks
of soft compassion, which might characte-
rize the countenance of a guardian angel,
spoke to her in the tenderest accents. But
these did not soothe Madame Montoni, whom
impatience to talk made unwilling to listen.
She wanted to complain, not to be consoled ;
and it was by exclamations of complaint
only that Emily learned the particular cir-
cumstances of her affliction.

" Ungrateful man !" said Madame Mon-
toni, " he has deceived me in every respect;
and now he has taken me from my country
and friends, to shut me up in this old cas-
tle ; and here he thinks he can compel me
to do whatever he designs ! But he shall
find himself mistaken — he shall find that no

threats can alter . But who would have

believed — who would have supposed, that a
man of his family and apparent wealth had
absolutely no fortune ? — no, scarcely a se-
quin of his own ! I did all for the best : I
thought he was a man of consequence, of
great property, or I am sure I would never
have married him — ungrateful, artful man !"
She paused to take breath.

" Dear madam, be composed," said Emily.
" The signor may not be so rich as you had
reason to expect, but surely he cannot be
vtry poor, since this castle and the mansion

at Venice are his. May I ask what are the
circumstances that particularly affect you f*

"What are the circumstances !" exclaimed
Madame Montoni with resentment ; " why,
is it not sufficient that he had long ago
ruined his own fortune by play, and that he
has since lost what I brought him ?— and
that now he would compel me to sign away
my settlement, (it was well I had the chief
of my property settled on myself !) that he
may lose this also, or throw it away in wild
schemes, which nobody can understand but

himself? And, and is not all this suf

ficient ?"

" It is, indeed," said Emily ; " but you
must recollect, dear madam, that I knew no-
thing of all this."

" Well, and is it not sufficient," rejoined
her aunt, " that he is also absolutely ruined,
that he is sunk deeply in debt, and that nei-
ther this castle, nor the mansion at Venice,
is his own, if all his debts, honourable and
dishonourable, were paid?"

" I am shocked by what you tell me, ma-
dam," said Emily.

" And is it not enough," interrupted Ma-
dame Montoni, " that he has treated me
with neglect, with cruelty, because I refused
to relinquish my settlements, and, instead
of being frightened by his menaces, reso-
lutely defied him, and upbraided him with
his shameful conduct? But I bore all
meekly ; — you know, niece, I never uttered
a word of complaint till now. No ! That
such a disposition as mine should be so im-
posed upon ! — that I, whose only faults are
too much kindness, too much generosity,
should be chained for life to such a vile,
deceitful, cruel monster!"

Want of breath compelled Madame Mon-
toni to stop. If any thing could have made
Emily smile in these moments, it would have
been this speech of her aunt, delivered in a
voice very little below a scream, and with a
vehemence of gesticulation and of counte-
nance that turned the whole into burlesque.
Emily saw that her misfortunes did not ad-
mit of real consolation ; and, contemning
the common-place terms of superficial com
fort, she was silent ; — while Madame Mon
toni, jealous of her own consequence, mis
took this for the silence of indifference, o)
of contempt, and reproached her with a want
of duty and feeling.

wO!I suspected what all this boasted
sensibility would prove to be !" rejoined
she : " I thought it would not teach you to
feel either duty or affection for your rela-
tions, who have treated you like their own
daughter !"

a Pardon me, madam," said Emily,
mildly, " it is not natural to me to boast ;
and if it was, I am sure I would not boast of
sensibility — a quality, perhaps, more to be
feared than desired •

133

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLlHK).

" Well, well, niece, 1 will not dispute with
you. But, as I said, Montoni threatens me
with violence, if I any longer refuse to sign
away my settlements ; and this was the sub-
ject of our contest when you came into the
room before. Now, I am determined no
power on earth shall make me do this ; nei-
ther will I bear all this tamely. He shall
hear his true character from me j I will tell
him all he deserves, in spite of his threats
and cruel treatment."

Emily seized a pause of Madame Mon-
toni voice to speak. " Dear madam,"
said she, " but will not this serve to irritate
the signor unnecessarily ? Will it not pro-
voke the harsh treatment you dread ?"

" I do not care," replied Madame Mon-
toni, " it does not signify ; I will not sub-
mit to such usage. You would have me give
up my settlements, too, I suppose ?" '*

" No, madam, I do not exactly mean that.'
" What is it you do mean, then ?"
" You spoke of reproaching the signor,"
said Emily, with hesitation. " Why, does
he not deserve reproaches ?" said her aunt.

" Certainly he does ; but will it be pru-
dent in you, madam, to make them ?"

"Prudent!" replied Madame Montoni;
"is this a time to talk of prudence, when
one is threatened with all sorts of violence ?"
" It is to avoid that violence that pru-
dence is necessary," said Emily.

* Of prudence !" continued Madame Mon-
toni, without attending to her ; " of pru-
dence towards a man, who does not scruple
to break all the common ties of humanity in
his conduct to me ! And is it for me to
consider prudence in my behaviour towards
him ? I am not so mean."

" It is for your own sake, not for the
signor's, madam," said Emily, modestly,
u that you should consult prudence. Your
reproaches, however just, cannot punish
him, but they may provoke him to further
violence against you."

•« What ! would you have me submit,
then, to whatever he commands ? Would
you have me kneel down at his feet, and
thank him for his cruelties ? Would you
have me give up my settlements ?"

" How much you mistake me, madam,"
said Emily. " I am unequal to advise you
on a point so important as the last ; but
you will pardon me for saying, that if you
cousult your own peace, you will try to con-
ciliate Signor Montoni, rather than to irri-
tate him by reproaches."

" Conciliate, indeed ! I tell you, niece,
it is utterly impossible; I disdain to at-
tempt it."

Emily was shocked to observe the per-
verted understanding and obstinate temper
of Madame Montoni •, but, not less grieved
for her sufferings, she looked i\mnd for some
alleviating circumstance to offer he* . —

" Your situation is, perhaps, not so despe-
rate, dear madam," said Emily, " as you
may imagine. The signor may represent
his affairs to be worse than they are, for the
purpose of pleading a stronger necessity for
his possession of your settlement. Besides,
so long as you keep this, you may look for-
ward to it as a resource, at least, that will
afford you a competence, should the signor's
future conduct compel you to sue for sepa-
ration."

Madame Montoni impatiently interrupted
her. " Unfeeling, cruel girl !" said she ;
" and so you will persuade me that I have
no reason to complain ; that the signor is in
very flourishing circumstances ; that my fu-
ture prospects promise nothing but comfort ;
and that my griefs are as fanciful and ro-
mantic as your own ! Is it the way to con-
sole me, to endeavour to persuade me out
of my senses and my feelings, because you
happen to have no feelings yourself? I
thought I was opening my heart to a person
who could sympathise in my distress ; but I
find that your people of sensibility can feel
for nobody but themselves ! You may re-
tire to your chamber.'

Emily, without replying, immediately
left the room, with a mingled emotion of
pity and contempt, and hastened to her own,
where she yielded to the mournful reflections
which a knowledge of her aunt's situation
had occasioned. The conversation of the
Italian with Valancourt in France again oc-
curred to her. His hints respecting the
broken fortunes of Montoni were now com-
pletely justified ; those also concerning his
character appeared not less so, though the
particular circumstances connected with his
fame, to which the stranger had alluded, yet
remained to be explained. Notwithstanding
that her own observations, and the words of
Count Morano, had convinced her that Mon-
toni's situation was not what it formerly ap-
peared to be, the intelligence she had just
received from her aunt on this point struck
her with all the force of astonishment, which
was not weakened when she considered the
present style of Montoni's living, the num-
ber of servants he maintained, and the new
expences he was incurring by repairing and
fortifying his castle. Her anxiety for her
aunt and for herself increased with reflection.
Several assertions of Morano, which, on the
preceding night, she had believed were
prompted either by interest or by resent-
ment, now returned to her mind with the
strength of truth. She could not doubt that
Montoni had formerly agreed to give her to
the count for a pecuniary reward ; his cha-
racter and his distressed circumstances jus-
tified the belief : these, also, seemed to con-
firm Moreno's assertion, that he now de-
signed to dispose of her, more advantage-
ously for himself, to a richer suitor.

tHfc MVSTERlES OF UJDOLPMO.

139

Amidst the reproaches which Morano had
thrown out against Montoni, he had said,
he would not quit the castle he dared to
tall his, nor willingly leave another murder
on his conscience ; hints which might have
no other origin than the passion of the mo*
fncnt : but Emily was now inclined to ac-
count for them more seriously, and she shud-
dered to think that she was in the hands of
a man, to whom it was even possible they
could apply. At length, considering that
reflection could neither release her from her
melancholy situation, nor enable her to bear
it with greater fortitude, she tried to divert
her anxiety, and took down from her little
library a volume of her favourite Ariosto ;
but his wild imagery and rich invention could
not long enchant her attention ; his spells
did not reach her heart, and over her sleep-
ing fancy they played, without awakening it.

She now put aside the book, and took her
lute ; for it was seldom that her sufferings
refused to yield to the magic of sweet sounds ;
when they did so, she was oppressed by sor-
row that came from excess of tenderness and
regret j— and there were times when music
had increased such sorrow to a degree that
was scarcely endurable, when, if it had not
suddenly ceased, she might have lost her
reason. Such was the time when she mourned
for her father, and heard the midnight strains
that floated by her window, near the convent
in Languedoc, on the night that followed
his death.

She continued to play till Annette brought
dinner into her chamber ; at which Emily
was surprised, and inquired whose order she
obeyed. " My lady's, ma'amselle," replied
Annette. " The signor ordered her dinner
to be carried to her own apartment, and so
she has sent you your's. There have been
sad doings between them, worse than ever,
I think:'

Emily, not appearing to notice what she
said, sat down to the little table that was
spread for her. But Annette was not to be
silenced thus easily. While she waited, she
told of the arrival of the men whom Emily
had observed on the ramparts, and ex-
pressed much surprise at their strange ap-
pearance, as well as at the manner in which
they had been attended by Montoni's order.
u Do they dine with the signor, then ?" said
Emily.

" No, ma'amselle, they dined long ago,
in an apartment at the north end of the
castle ; but I know not when they are to
go, for the signor told old Carlo to see them
^provided with every thing necessary. They
have been walking all about the castle, and
asking questions of the workmen on the
ramparts. I never saw such strange look-
ing men in my life 5 I am frightened when-
rver I see them."

Emily inquired if she had heard of Count
Morano, and whether he was likely to re-
cover : but Annette only knew that he was
lodged in a cottage in the wood below, and
that every body said he must die. Emily's
countenance discovered her emotion.

u Dear ma'amselle," said Annette, * to
see how young ladies will disguise them-
selves when they are in love ! I thought you
hated the count, or I am sure I would not
have told you ; and I am sure you have
cause enough to hate him.t'

" 1 hope I hate nobody," replied Emily,
trying to smile: "but certainly I do not
love Count Morano. I should be shocked
to hear of any person dying by violent
means."

" Yes, ma'amselle, but it is his own
fault."

Emily looked displeased 5 and Annette,
mistaking the cause of her displeasure, im-
mediately began to excuse the count in her
way. " To be sure it was very ungenteel
behaviour," said she, " to break into a
lady's room, and then, when he found his
discoursing was not agreeable to her, to re-
fuse to go ; and then, when the gentleman
of the castle comes to desire him to walk
about his business — to turn round, and
draw his sword, and swear he'll run him
through the body ! To be sure it was very
ungenteel behaviour, but then he was dis-
guised in love, and so did not know what he
was about."

" Enough of this," said Emily, who now
smiled without an effort; and Annette re-
turned to a mention of the disagreement
between Montoni and her lady. " It is no-
thing new," said she : " we saw and heard
enough of this at Venice, though I never
told you of it, ma'amselle."

" Well, Annette, it was very prudent of
you not to mention it then : be as prudent
now ; the subject is an unpleasant one."

" Ah dear, ma'amselle ! — to see now how-
considerate you can be about some folks,
who care so little about you ! I cannot
bear so see you so deceived, and I must
tell you. But it is all for your own good, and
not to spite my lady, though, to speak
truth, I have little reason to love her ;
but "

" You are not speaking thus of my aunt,
I hope, Annette ?" said Emily gravely.

" Yes, ma'amselle, but 1 am, though ; and
if you knew as much as I do, you would no?
look so angry. I have ofteny and often,
heard the signor and her talking over your
marriage with the count, and she always ad
vised him never to give up to your foolisn
whims as she was pleased to call them, but
to be resolute, and compel you to be
obedient, whether you would or not. Ann
I am sure my heart has ached a thousand

140

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

times, and I have thought when she was so
unhappy herself, she might have felt a

little for other people, and "

" I thank you for your pity, Annette,"
said Emily, interrupting her : " but my aunt
was unhappy then, and that disturbed her
temper perhaps, or I think — lam sure —
You may take away, Annette, I have done."
" Dear ma'amselle, you have eat nothing
at all ! Do try and take a little bit more.
Disturbed her temper truly ! why, her
temper is always disturbed, I think. And
at Thoulouse I have heard my lady talking
of you and Mons. Valancourt to Madame '
Merveille and Madame Vaison, often and
often, in a very ill-natured way, as I thought,
telling them what a deal of trouble she had
to keep you in order, and what a fatigue and
distress it was to her, and that she believed
you would run away with Mons. Valancourt,
if she was not to watch you closely j and
that you connived at his coming about the

house at night, and "

" Good God J" exclaimed Emily, blushing
deeply, " it was surely impossible my aunt
could thus have represented me 1"

" Indeed, ma'am, I say nothing more
than the truth, and not all of that. But I
thought, myself, she might have found
something better to discourse about, than
the faults of her own niece, even if you had
been in fault, ma'amselle ! but I did not
believe a word of what she said. But my
lady does not care what she says against
any body for that matter."

" However that may be, Annette," inter-
rupted Emily, recovering her composure,
" it does not become you to speak of the
faults of my aunt to me. I know you have

meant well, but say no more. — I have

quite dined."

Annette blushed, looked down, and then
began slowly to clear the table.

"Is this, then, the reward of my in-
genuousness ? said Emily, when she was
alone ; " the treatment I am to receive
from a relation — an aunt — who ought to
have been the guardian, not the slanderer of
my reputation, — who, as a woman, ought to
have respected the delicacy of female
honour, and, as a relation, should have pro-
tected mine ! But, to utter falsehoods on
so nice a subject — to repay the openness,
and, I may say with honest pride, the pro-
priety of my conduct with slander— required
a depravity of heart, such as I could
scarcely have believed existed, such as I
weep to find in a relation. O ! what a con-
trast does her character present to that of
my beloved father ; while envy and low
cunning form the chief traits of her's, his
was distinguished by benevolence and philo-
sophic wisdom ! But now let me only re-
member, if possible, that she is unfortunate."

Emily threw her veil over her, and went
down to walk upon the ramparts, the only
walk, indeed, which was open to her, though
she often wished that she might be per-
mitted to ramble among the woods below,
and still more, that she might sometimes
explore the sublime scenes of the surround-
ing country. But as Montoni would not
suffer her to pass the gates of the castle,
she tried to be contented with the romantic
views she beheld from the walls. The
peasants, who had been employed on the
fortifications, had left their work, and the
ramparts were silent and solitary. Their
lonely appearance, together with the gloom
of a lowering sky, assisted the musings of
her mind, and threw over it a kind of
melancholy tranquillity, such as she often
loved to indulge. She turned to observe a
fine effect of the sun, as his rays, suddenly
streaming from behind a heavy cloud,
lighted up the west towers of the castle,
while the rest of the edifice was in deep
shade, except that, through a lofty gothic
arch adjoining the tower, which led to
another terrace, the beams darted in full
splendour, and showed the three strangers
she had observed in the morning. Per
ceiving them, she started, and a momentary
fear came over her, as she looked upon the
long rampart, and saw no other persons.
While she hesitated, they approached. The
gate at the end of the terrace, whither they
were advancing, she knew was always
locked, and she could not depart by the
opposite extremity without meeting them j
but, before she passed them, she hastily
drew a thin veil over her face, which did,
indeed, but ill conceal her beauty. They
looked earnestly at her, and spoke to each
other in bad Italian, of which she caught
only a few words ; but the fierceness ot
their countenances, now that she was
near enough to discriminate them, struck
her yet more than the wild singularity of
their air and dress had formerly done. It
was the countenance and figure of him who
walked between the other two that chiefly
seized her attention, which expressed a
sullen haughtiness, and a kind of dark
watchful villany, and gave a thrill of horror
to her heart. All this was so legibly written
on his features, as to be seen by a single
glance, for she passed the group swiftly,
and her timid eyes scarcely rested on them
a moment. Having reached the terrace, she
stopped, and perceived the strangers stand-
ing in the shadow of one of the turrets
gazing after her, and seemingly by their
action, in earnest conversation. She im-
mediately left the rampart, and retired to
her apartment.

In the evening, Montoni sat late, carous-
ing with his guests in the cedar chamber.

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

41

His recent triumph over Count Morano, or,
perhaps some other circumstance, con-
tributed to elevate his spirits to an unusual
height. He filled the goblet often, and gave
a loose to merriment and talk. The gaiety of
Cavigni, on the contrary, was somewhat
clouded by anxiety. He kept a watchful
eye upon Verezzi, whom, with the utmost
difficulty he had hitherto restrained from ex-
asperating Montoni further against Morano,
by a mention of his late taunting words.

One of the company exultingly recuned
to the event of the preceding evening.
Verezzi's eyes sparkled. The mention of
Morano led to that of Emily, of whom they
were all profuse in the praise, except Mon-
toni, who sat silent, and then interrupted
the subject.

VVrhen the servants had withdrawn, Mon-
toni and his friends entered into close con-
versation, which was sometimes checked by
the irascible temper of Verezzi, but in
which Montoni displayed his conscious
superiority, by that decisive look and manner
which always accompanied the vigour of
his thought, and to which most of his com-
panions submitted, as to a power that they
had no right to question, though of each
others self-importance they were jealously
scrupulous. Amidst this conversation one
of them imprudently introduced again the
name of Morano ; and Verezzi, now more
heated oy wine, disregarded the expressive
looks of Cavigni, and gave some dark hints
of what had passed on the preceeding night.
These, however, Montoni did not appear to
undertand, for he continued silent in his
chair, without discovering any emotion,
while the choler of Verezzi increasing with
the apparent insensibility of Montoni, he at
length told the suggestion of Morano, that
this castle did not lawfully belong to him,
and that he would not willingly leave
another murder on his conscience.

m Am I to be insulted at my own table,
and by my own friends ? said Montoni, with
a countenance pale in anger. " Why are
the words of that madman repeated to me ?"
Verezzi, who had expected to hear Montoni's
indignation poured forth against Morano,
and answered by thanks to himself, looked
with astonishment at Cavigni, who enjoyed
his confusion. " Can you be weak enough
to credit the assertions of a madman ?" re-
joined Montoni, "or, what is the same
thing, a man possessed by the spirit of ven-
geance ? but he has succeeded too well ;
you believe what he said."

" Signor," said Verezzi, " we believe only
what we know." — "How!" interrupted
Montoni, sternly : " produce your proof."

" We believe only what we know," re-
peated Verezzi, "and we know nothing of
what Morano asserts." Montoni seemed to
recover himself. " T am hasty, my friends,"

said he, "with respect to my honour; ik>
man shall question it with impunity—you
did not mean to question it. These foolish
words are not worth your remembrance, or
my resentment. Verezzi, here is to your
first exploit."

"Success to your first exploit," re-echoed
the whole company.

" Noble signor," replied Verezzi, glad to
find he had escaped Montoni's resentment,
" with my good will, you shall build your
ramparts of gold."

" Pass the goblet," cried Montoni. " We
will drink to Signora St. Aubert," said
Cavigni. " By your leave, we will first
drink to the lady of the castle," said Ber-
tolini. — Montoni was silent. "To the lady
of the castle," said his guests. He bowed
his head.

"It much surprises me, signor," said
Sertoli ni, " that you have so long neglected
this castle ; it is a noble edifice."

" It suits our purpose," replied Montoni,
" and is a noble edifice. You know not,
it seems, by what mischance it came to me."

" It was a lucky mischance, be it what it
may, signor," replied Sertolmi, smiling.
"I would that one so lucky had befallen
me."

Montoni looked gravely at him. "If you
will attend to what I say," he resumed,
" you shall hear the story."

The countenances of Bertolini and Ve-
rezzi expressed something more than curi-
osity; Cavigni, who seemed to feel none,
had probably heard the relation before.

" It is now near twenty years," said Mon-
toni, " since this castle came into my pos-
session. I inherit it by the female line.
The lady, my predecessor, was only dis-
tantly related to me ; I am the last of her
family. She was beautiful and rich ; I
wooed her ; but her heart was fixed upon
another, and she rejected me. It is probable,
however, that she was herself rejected of
the person, whoever he might be, on whom
she bestowed her favour, for a deep and
settled melancholy took possession of her ;
and 1 have reason to believe she put a
period to her own life. I was not at the
castle at the time ; but as there are some
singular and mysterious circumstances at-
tending that event, I shall repeat them."

" Repeat them!" said a voice.

Montoni was silent : the guests looked at
each other, to know who spoke ; but they
perceived that each was naaking the same
inquiry. Montoni, at length recovering
himself, " We are overheard," said he :
" we will finish this subject another time.
Pass the goblet."

The cavaliers looked round the wide
chamber.

" Here is no person but ourselves," said
Verezzi ; " pray, signor, proceed ' '

14*

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

"Did you hear any thing?" said Mon-
toni.

« We did," said Bertolini.

« It could be only fancy," said Verezzi,
looking round again. " We see no person
besides ourselves •, and the sound I thought
I heard seemed within the room. Pray,
signor, go on."

Montoni paused a moment, and then pro-
ceeded in a lowered voice, while the cava-
liers drew nearer to attend.

"Ye are to know, signors, that the Lady
Laurentini had for some months shown
symptoms of a dejected mind, nay of a dis-
turbed imagination. Her mood was very
unequal j sometimes she was sunk in calm
melancholy, and at others, as I have been
told, she betrayed all the symptoms of
frantic madness. It was one night in the
month of October, after she had recovered
from one of those fits of excess, and had
sunk again into her usual melancholy, that
she retired alone to her chamber, and for-
bade all interruption. It was the chamber
at the end of the corridor, signors, where
we had the affray last night. From that
hour she was seen no more."

" How ! seen no more !" said Bertolini ;
" was not her body found in the chamber ?"

" Were her remains never found ?" cried
the rest of the company all together.

"Never !" replied Montoni.

" What reasons were there to suppose she
destroyed herself, then?" said Bertolini. —
u Ay, what reasons ?" said Verezzi. " How
happened it that her remains were never
found? Although she killed herself, she
could not bury herself." Montoni looked
indignantly at Verezzi, who began to apolo-
gise. " Your pardon, signor," said he ; " I
did not consider that the lady was your rela-
tive when I spoke of her so lightly."

Montoni accepted the apology.

" But the signor will oblige us with the
reasons which urged him to believe that the
lady committed suicide."

" Those I will explain hereafter," said
Montoni : " at present, let me relate a most
extraordinary circumstance. This conversa-
tion goes no further, signors. Listen, then*
to what I am going to say."

" Listen '." said a voice.

They were all again silent, and the coun-
tenance of Montoni changed. " This is no
illusion of the fancy," said Cavigni, at
length breaking the profound silence. " No,"
said Bertolini ; " I heard it myself now.—
Yet here is no person in the room but our-
selves !"

"This is very extraordinary," said Mon-
toni, suddenly rising. "This is not to be
borne : here is some deception, some trick j

will know what it means."

All the company ro6e from their chairs in
coafnsion.

" It is very odd," said Bertolini. " Her*
is really no stranger in the room. If it is a
trick, signor, you will do well to punish the
author of it severely."

" A trick ! what else can it be ?" said Ca-
vigni, affecting a laugh.

The servants were now summoned, and
the chamber was searched, but no person
was found. The surprise and consternation
Of the company increased : Montoni wag
discomposed. " We will leave this room,"
said he, " and the subject of our conversa-
tion also 5 it is too solemn/' His guests
were equally ready to quit the apartment j
but the subject had roused their curiosity,
and they entreated Montoni to withdraw to
another chamber, and finish it. No en-
treaties could, however, prevail with him.
Notwithstanding his efforts to appear at
ease, he was visibly and greatly disordered.

" Why, signor, you are not supersti-
tious," cried Verezzi, jeeringly *, " you, who
have so often laughed at the credulity of
others !"

" I am not superstitious," replied Mon-
toni, regarding him with stern displeasure,
" though I know how to despise the com-
mon-place sentences which are frequently
uttered against superstition. I will inquiie
further into this affair." He then left the
room ; and his guests, separating for the
night, retired to their respective apartments.

CHAP. XXI.

" He wears the rose of youth upon his cheek."

SHAKSPEARE.

We now return to Valancourt, who, it
may be remembered, remained at Thoulouse,
some time after the departure of Emily,
restless and miserable. Each morrow that
approached he designed should carry him
from thence ; yet to-morrow and to-morrow
came, and still saw him lingering in the scene
of his former happiness. He could not im.
mediately tear himself from the spot where
he had been accustomed to converse with
Emily, or from the objects they had viewed
together, which appeared to him memorials
of her affection, as well as a kind of surety
for its faithfulness ; and, next to the pain of
bidding her adieu, was that of leaving the
scenes which so powerfully awakened her
image. Sometimes he had bribed a servant,
who had been left in the care of Madame
MontouPs chateau, to permit him to visit
the gardens ; and there he would wander for
hours together, rapt in a melancholy not un-
pleasing. The terrace, and the pavilion at
the end of it, where he had taken leave of
Emily on the eve of her departure from
Thoulouse, were his most favourite haunts.
There, as he walked, or leaned from the
window of the building, he would endeavouf
to recollect all she bad said on that night

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPIIO.

113

to catch the tones of her voice, as they
faintly vibrated on his memory, and to re-
member the exact expression of her counte-
nance, which sometimes came suddenly to
his fancy like a vision ; that beautiful coun-
tenance, which awakened, as by instanta-
neous magic, all the tenderness of his heart,
andseemed to tell, with irresistible eloquence
— that he had lost her for ever ! At these
moments, his hurried steps would have dis-
covered to a spectator the despair of his
heart. The character of Montoni, such as
he had received from hints, and such as his
fears represented it, would rise to his view,
together with all the dangers it seemed to
threaten to Emily and to his love. He
blamed himself that he had not urged these
more forcibly to her while it might have
been in his power to detain her, and that he
had suffered an absurd and criminal deli-
cacy, as he termed it, to conquer so soon
the reasonable arguments he had opposed to
this journey. Any evil that might have at-
tended their marriage seemed so inferior to
those which now threatened their love, or
even to the sufferings that absence occa-
sioned, that he wondered how he could have
ceased to urge his suit till he had convinced
her of its propriety 5 and he would certainly
now have followed her to Italy, if he could
have been spared from his regiment for so
long a journey. His regiment, indeed, soon
reminded him that he had other duties to
attend than those of love.

A short time after his arrival at his
brother's house, he was summoned to join
his brother officers, and he accompanied a
battalion to Paris j where a scene of novelty
and gaiety opened upon him, such as, till
then, he had only a faint idea of. But gaiety
disgusted, and company fatigued, his sick
mind ; and he became an object of unceasing
raillery to his companions, from whom,
whenever he could steal an opportunity, he
escaped, to think of Emlry. The scenes
around him, however, and the company with
whom he was obliged to mingle, engaged
his attention, though they failed to amuse
his fancy, and thus gradually weakened the
habit of yielding to lamentation, till it ap-
peared less a duty to his love to indulge it.
Among his brother officers were many who
added, to the" ordinary character of a French
soldier's gaiety, some of those fascinating
qualities which too frequently throw a veil
over folly, and sometimes even soften the
features of vice into smiles. To these men
the reserved and thoughtful manmrs of
Valancourt were a kind of tacit censure on
their own, for which they rallied him when
present, and plotted against him when ab-
sent 'y they gloried in the thought of re-
ducing him to their own level, and con-
sidering it to be a spirited frolic, determined
to accomplish it.

Valancourt was a stranger to tie gia
dual progress of scheme and intrigue, against
which he could not be on his guard. He
had not been accustomed to receive ridi-
cule, and he could ill endure its sting ; he
resented it, and this only drew upon him a
louder laugh. To escape from such scenes
he fled into solitude, and there the image
of Emily met him, and revived the pangs
of love and despair. He then sought to
renew those tasteful studies which had been
the delight of his early years ; but his mind
had lost the tranquillity which is necessary
for their enjoyment. To forget himself,
and the grief and anxiety which the idea of
her recalled, he would quit his solitude, «?d
again mingle in the crowd — glad of a tem-
porary relief, and rejoicing to snatch amuse-
ment for the moment.

Thus passed weeks after weeks, time gra-
dually softening his sorrow, and habit
strengthening his desire of amusement, till
the scenes around him seemed to awaken
into a new character, and Valancourt to
have fallen among them from the clouds.

His figure and address made him a wel-
come visitor wherever he had been intro-
duced, and he soon frequented the most
gay and fashionable circles of Paris. Among
these was the assembly of the Countess
Lacleur, a woman of eminent beauty and
captivating manners. She had passed the
spring of youth, but her wit prolonged the
triumph of its reign, and they mutually
assisted the fame of each other ; for those
who were charmed by her loveliness, spoke
with enthusiasm of her talents ; and others,
who admired her playful imagination, de-
clared that her personal graces were unri-
valled. But her imagination was merely
playful, and her wit, if such it could be
called, was brilliant rather than just 5 it
dazzled, and its fallacy escaped the de-
tection of the moment ; for the accents
in which she pronounced it, and the smile
that accompanied them, were a spell upon
the judgment of the auditors. Her petit*
soupers were the most tasteful of any in
Paris, and were frequented by many of the
second class of literati. She was fond of
music, was herself a scientific performer,
and had frequently concerts at her house.
Valancourt, who passionately loved music,
and who sometimes assisted at these concerts,
admired her execution, but remembered with
a sigh the eloquent simplicity of Emily's
songs, and the natural expression of her
manner, which waited not to be approved by
the judgment, but found their way at once to
the heart.

Madame La Comtesse had often deep play
at her house, which she affected to restrain,
but secretly encouraged ; and it was well
known among her friends, that the splendour
of her establishment was chiefly supplied

144

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

from the profits of her tables. But her
pctits soupers were the most charming ima-
ginable ! Here were all the delicacies of the
four quarters of the world, all the wit and
the lighter efforts of genius, all the graces of
conversation — the smiles of beauty, and the
charms of music ; and Valancourt passed
his pleasantesr, as well as most dangerous,
hours in these parties.

His brother, who remained with his fami-
ly in Gascony, had contented himself with
giving him letters of introduction to such of
his relations, residing at Paris, as the latter
was not already known to. All these were
persons of some distinction 5 and, as neither
the person, mind, nor manners of Valancourt
the younger threatened to disgrace their al-
liance, they received him with as much
kindness as their nature, hardened by unin-
terrupted prosperity, would admit of: but
their attentions did not extend to acts of
real friendship ; for they were too much oc-
cupied by their own pursuits, to feel any in-
terest in his ; and thus he was set down in
the midst of Paris, in the pride of youth,
with an open, unsuspicious temper, and ar-
dent affections, without one friend to warn
him of the dangers to which he was exposed.
Emily, who, had she been present, would
have saved him from these evils, by awak-
ening his heart, and engaging him in worthy
pursuits, now only increased his danger ♦,—
it was to lose the grief, which the remem-
brance of her occasioned, that he first sought
amusement ; and for this end he pursued it,
till habit made it an object of abstract in-
terest.

There was also a Marchioness of Champ-
fort, a young widow, at whose assemblies he
passed much of his time. She was hand-
some, still more artful, gay, and fond of in-
trigue. The society, which she drew round
her, was less elegant, and more vicious, than
that of the Countess Lacleur ; but, as she had
address enough to throw a veil, though but a
slight one, over the worst part of her cha-
racter, she was still visited by many persons
of what is called distinction. Valancourt
was introduced to her parties by two of his
brother officers, whose late ridicule he had
now forgiven so far, that he could sometimes
join in the laugh which a mention of his for-
mer manners would renew.

The gaiety of the most splendid court in
Europe, the magnificence of the palaces, en-
tertainment, and equipages that surrounded
him — all conspired to dazzle his imagination,
and re-animate his spirits, and the example
and maxims of his military associates to de-
lude his mind. Emily's image, indeed, still
lived there 5 but it was no longer the friend,
and monitor, that saved him from himself,
yet to which he retired to weep the sweet,
the melancholy, tears of tenderness. When
he had recourse to it, it assumed a counte

nance of mild reproach, that wrung his soul,
and called forth tears of unmixed misery j
his only escape from which was to forget
the object of it, and he endeavoured, there-
fore, to think of Emily as seldom as he
could.

Thus dangerously circumstanced was Va
lancourt, at the time when Emily was suf-
fering at Venice, from the persecuting
addresses of Count Morano, and the unjust
authority of Montoni ; at which period we
leave him.

CHAP. XXII.

41 The image of a wicked, heinous fault,
Lives in his eye ; that close aspect of his
Does show the mood of a much-troubled breast.'*

KING JOHN.

Leaving the gay scenes of Paris, we re-
turn to those of the gloomy Apennine, where
Emily's thoughts were still faithful to Va-
lancourt. Looking to him as to her only
hope, she recollected, with jealous exact-
ness, every assurance, and every proof she
had witnessed of his affections ; read again
and again the letters she had received from
him ; weighed, with intense anxiety, the
force of every word that spoke of his attach-
ment ; and dried her tears, as she trusted in
his truth.

Montoni, meanwhile, had made strict in-
quiry concerning the strange circumstance
of his alarm, without obtaining informa-
tion ; and was at length obliged to account
for it, by the reasonable supposition that it
was a mischievous trick played off by one
of his domestics. His disagreements with
Madame Montoni, on the subject of her set-
tlements, were now more frequent than ever;
he had even confined her entirely to her own
apartment, and did not scruple to threaten
her with much greater severity, should she
persevere in a refusal.

Reason, had she consulted it, would now
have perplexed her in the choice of a con-
duct to be adopted. It would have pointed
out the danger of irritating, by further op-
position, a man such as Montoni had proved
himself to be, and to whose power she had
so entirely committed herself; and it would
also have told her of what extreme impor-
tance to her future comfort it was, to reserve
for herself those possessions, which would
enable her to live independently of Montoni,
should she ever escape from his immediate
control. But she was directed by a more
decisive guide than reason — the spirit of re-
venge, which urged her to oppose violence
to violence, and obstinacy to obstinacy.

Wholly confined to the solitude of her
apartment, she was now reduced to solicit
the society she so lately rejected ; for
Emily was the only person, except Annette,
with whom 6he was permitted to converse.

Generously anxious for her peace, Emily,
therefore, tried to persuade when slie could

I

not convince, and sought, by every gentle
means, to induce her to forbear that asperity
of reply which so greatly irritated Mon-
toni. The pride of her aunt did sometimes
soften to the soothing voice of Emily,
and there even were moments when she re-
garded her affectionate attentions with good
will.

The scenes of terrible contention, to
which Emily was frequently compelled to
be witness, exhausted her spirits more than
any circumstances that had occurred since
her departure from Thoulouse. The gentle-
ness and goodness of her parents, together
with the scenes of her early happiness, often
stole on her mind, like the visions of a higher
world*, while the characters and circum-
stances now passing beneath her eye excited
both terror and surprise. She could scarcely
have imagined that passions so fierce and
so various, as those which Montoni ex-
hibited, could have been concentrated in
one individual ; yet what more surprised her,
was, that, on great occasions, he could bend
these passions, wild as they were, to the
cause of his interest, and generally could
disguise in his countenance their operation
on his mind ; but she had seen him too often,
when he had thought it unnecessary to con-
ceal his nature, to be deceived on such oc-
casions.

Her present life appeared like the dream
of a distempered imagination, or like one
of those frightful fictions, in which the wild
genius of the poets sometimes delighted.
Reflection brought only regret, and antieipa-
L

tion terror. How often did she wish to
" steal the lark's wing, and mount the
swiftest gale," that Languedoc and repose
might once more be her's !

Of Count Morano's health she made fre-
quent inquiry 5 but Annette heard only
vague reports of his danger, and that his
surgeon had said he would never leave the
cottage alive ; while Emily could not but
be shocked to think that she, however in-
nocently, might be the means of his death ;
and Annette, who did not fail to observe her
emotion, interpreted it in her own way.

But a circumstance soon occurred, which
entirely withdrew Annette's attention from
this subject, and awakened the surprise and
curiosity so natural to her. Coming one
day to Emily's apartment, with a coun-
tenance full of importance, " What can all-
this mean, ma'amselle ?" said she. " Would
I was once safe in Languedoc again, they
should never catch me going on my travels
any more ! I must think it a fine thing,
truly, to come abroad, and see foreign parts !
I little thought I was coming to be caged
up in an old castle, among such dreary
mountains, with the chance of being mur-
dered, or, what is as good, having my throat
cut !"

" What can all this mean, indeed, An-
nette ?" said Emily in astonishment.

" Ay, ma'mselle, you may look surprised ;
but you won't believe it, perhaps, till they
have murdered you, too. You would not
believe about the ghost I told you ot,
though I showed you the very place whflre

143

uo

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

it used to appear !— You will believe nothing,
ma'amselle."

" Not till you speak more reasonably,
Annette; for Heaven's sake, explain your
meaning. You spoke of murder !"

" Ay, ma'amselle, they are coming to
murder us all, perhaps ; but what signifies
explaining — you will not believe."

Emily again desired her to relate what
she had seen, or heard.

" O, I have seen enough, ma'am, and heard
too much, as Ludovico can prove. Poor soul !
they will murder him, too ! I little thought,
when he sung those sweet verses under my
lattice at Venice 1" Emily looked impatient
and displeased. — "Well, ma'amselle, as I
was saying, these preparations about the
castle, and these strange looking people that
are calling here every day, and the signor's
cruel usage of my lady, and his odd goings-
on — all these, as I told Ludovico, can bode
no good. And he bid me hold my tongue.
So, says I, the signor's strangely altered,
Ludovico, in this gloomy castle, to what he
was in France ; there, all so gay ! Nobody
so gallant to my lady, then ; and he could
smile, too, upon a poor servant, sometimes,
and jeer her too, good natu redly enough.
1 remember once, when he said to me, as I
was going out of my lady's dressing Toom —
Annette, says he — "

" Never mind what the signor said," in-
terupted Emily; "but tell me, at once,
the circumstance which has thus alarmed
you."

"Ay, ma'amselle," rejoined Annette,
" that is just what Ludovico says : says he,
Never mind what the signor says to you.
So I told him what I thought about the
signor. He is so strangely altered, said I :
for now he is so haughty, and so command-
ing, and so shary with my lady ; and if he
meets one, he'll scarcely look at one, unless
it be to frown. So much the better, says
Ludivico, so much the better. And to tell
you the truth, ma'amselle, I thought this
was a very ill-natured speech of Ludovico :
but I went on. And then, says I, he is
always knitting his brows ; and if one
speaks to him he does not hear ; and then
he sits up counselling so, of a night, with
the other signors — there they are, till long
past midnight, discoursing together ! Ay,
but says Ludovico, you don't know what they
are counselling about. No, said I, but I
can guess — it is about my young lady.
Upon that, Ludovico burst out a laughing
quite loud ; so he put me in a huff, for I
did not like that either I or you, ma'am,
selle, should be laughed at ; and I turned
away quick, but he stopped me. 'Don't be
affronted, Annette,' said he, ' but I cannot
help laughing ;' and with that he laughed
again. * What 1' says he, c do you think the
signors sit up, night after night, only to

counsel about thy young lady ! No, no,
there is something more in the wind
than that. And these repairs about the
castle, and these preparations about the
ramparts— they are not making about young
ladies.' Why, surely, said I, the signor, my
master, is not going to make war ? ' Make
war ?' said Ludovico, ' what, upon the
mountains and the woods ? for here is no
living soul to make war upon, that 1 see."

" What are these preparations for, then ?
said 1 ; why, surely nobody is coming to take
away my master's castle ! ' Then there are
so many ill-looking fellows coming to the
castle every day,' says Ludovico, without
answering my question, « and the signer
sees them all, and talks with them all, and
they all stay in the neighbourhood ! By
holy St. Marco ! some of them are the most
cut-throat-looking dogs I ever set my eyes
upon.'

" I asked Ludovico again, if he thought
they were coming to take away my master's
castle ; and he said, No, he did not think
they were, but he did not know for certain.
'Then, yesterday,' said he, but you must
not tell this, ma'amselle — 'yesterday, a
party of these men came, and left all their
horses in the castle stables, where, it seems,
they are to stay, for the signer ordered them
all to be entertained with the best proven-
der in the manger ; but the men are most
of them in the neighbouring cottages.'

" So, ma'amselle, I came to tell you all this,
for I never heard any thing so strange in my
life. But what can these ill-looking men
be come about, if it is not to murder us ?
And the signor knows this, or v> hy should he
be so civil to them ? And why should he
fortify the castle, and counsel so much with
the other signors, and be so thoughtful ?"

" Is this all you have to tell, Annette?"
said Emily. " Have you heard nothing else
that alarms you ?"

"Nothing else, ma'amselle !" said An-
nette ; " why, is not this enough ?"— -"Quite
enough for my patience, Annette, but not
quite enough to convince me we are all to be
murdered, though I acknowledge here is
sufficient food for curiosity." She forbore
to speak her apprehensions, because she
would not encourage Annette's wild terrors ;
but the present circumstances of the castle
both surprised and alarmed her. Annette,
having told her tale, left the chamber on
the wing for new wonders.

In the evening Emily had passed some
melancholy hours with Madame Montoni,
and was retiring to rest, when she was
alarmed by a strange and loud knocking at
her chamber door, and then a heavy weight
fell against it, that almost burst it open.
She called to know who was there, and re-
ceiving no answer, repeated the call ; but
a chilling silence followed. It occurred to

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

m

her — for at this moment, she could not rea-
son on the probability of circumstances — that
some one of the strangers, lately arrived at
the castle, had discovered her apartment,
and was come with such intent, as their
looks rendered too possible — to rob, perhaps
tomurder her. The moment she admitted
this possibility, terror supplied the place of
conviction, and a kind of instinctive remem-
brance of her remote situation from the
family heightened it to a degree that almost
overcame her senses. She, looked at the
door which led to the staircase, expecting
to see it open, and listening, in fearful si-
lence, for a return of the noise, till she be-
gan to think it had proceeded from this
door, and a wish of escaping through the
opposite one rushed upon her mind. She
went to the gallery door, and then, fearing
to open it, lest some person might be
silently lurking for her without, she stopped,
but with her eyes fixed in expectation upon
the opposite door of the staircase. As thus she
stood, she heard a faint breathing near her,
and became convinced that some person was
on the other side of the door, which was al-
ready locked. She sought for other fasten-
ing, but there was none.

While she yet listened, the breathing was
distinctly heard, and her terror was not
soothed, when looking round her wide and
lonely chamber, she again considered her re-
mote situation. As she stood hesitating
m hether to call for assistance, the continu-
ance of the stillness surprised her ; and her
spirits would have revived, had she not
continued to hear the faint breathing, that
convinced her the person, whoever it was,
had not quitted the door.

At length, worn out with anxiety, she
determined to call loudly for assistance
from her casement, and was advancing to
it, when, whether the terror of her mind
gave her ideal sounds, or that real ones did
come, she thought footsteps were ascending
the private staircase ; and expecting to see
its door unclose, she forgot all other cause
of alarm, and retreated towards the corridor.
Here she endeavoured to make her escape,
but, on opening the door, was very near
falling over a person who lay on the floor
without. She screamed and would have pas-
sed, but her trembling frame refused to sup-
port her ; and the moment in which she leaned
against the wall of the gallery, allowed her
leisure to observe the figure before her, and
to recognise the features of Annette. Fear
instantly yielded to surprise. She spoke in
vain to the poor girl, who remained sense-
less on the floor, and then losing all con-
sciousness of her own weakness, hurried to
her assistance.

When Annette recovered, she was helped
by Emily into the chamber, but was still
unable to speak, and looked round her, as

if her eyes followed some person in the
room. Emily tried to soothe her disturbed
spirits, and forbore, at present, to ask her
any questions ; but the faculty of speech
was never long withheld from Annette, and
she explained in broken sentences, and in her
tedious way, the occasion of her disorder.
She affirmed, and with a solemnity of con-
viction, that almost staggered the incre-
dulity of Emily, that she had seen an ap
parition, as she was passing to her bed-
room, through the corridor.

" I had heard strange stories of that cham-
ber before," said Annette : " but as it was so
near your's, ma'amselle, 1 would not tell
them to you, because they would frighten
you. The servants had told me, often and
often, that it was haunted, and that was the
reason why it was shut up : nay, for that
matter, why, the whole string of these rooms,
here, are shut np. 1 quaked whenever 1
went by, and I must say, 1 did sometimes
think I heard odd noises within it. But, ^
I said, as I was passing along the corridor,
and not thinking a word about the matter,
or even of the strange voice that the signors
heard the other night, all of a sudden comes
a great light, and, looking behind me, these
was a tall figure (I saw it as plainly, ma'am
selle, as I see you at this moment), a tail
figure gliding along (Oh ! I cannot describe
how !) into the room that is always shut up,
and nobody has the key of it but the signor,
and the door shut directly."

" Then it doubtless was the signor," said
Emily.

"O no, nia'amselle, it could not be him,
for 1 left him busy a quarrelling in my
lady's dressing-room !"

" You bring me strange tales, Annette,'*
said Emily : " it was but this morning that
you would have terrified me with the appre-
hension of murder; and now you would
persuade me you have seen a ghost ? These
wonderful stories come too quickly."

" Nay, ma'amselle, I will say no more,
only, if I had not been frightened, I should
not have fainted dead away, so I ran as fast
as I could, to get to your door; but what
was worst of all, T could not call out ; then
I thought something must be strangely the
matter M'ith me, and directly I dropt down."
" Was it the chamber where the black
veil hangs ?" said Emily. " O ! no, ma'am-
seile, it was one nearer to this. What shall
I do, to get to my room ? I would not go
out into the corridor again for the whole
world !" Emily, whose spirits had been
severely shocked, and who, therefore, did
not like the thought of passing the night
alone, told her she might sleep where she
was. " O ! no, ma'amseile," replied An-
nette, " I would not sleep in the room, now,
for a thousand sequins !"

Wearied and disappointed, Emilv first

148

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOI.PHO.

ridiculed, though she shared, her fears, and
then tried to sooth them j but neither at-
tempt succeeded, and the girl persisted in
6elieving and affirming that what she had
seen was nothing human. It was not till
some time after Emily had recovered her
composure, that she recollected the steps she
had heard on the staircase — a remembrance,
however, which made her insist that An-
nette should pass the night with her, and,
with much difficulty, she at length pre-
vailed, assisted by that part of the girl's
fear which concerned the corridor.

Early on the following morning, as Emily
crossed the hall to the ramparts, she heard
a noisy bustle in the court-yard, Jad the
clatter of horses' hoofs. Such unusual
sounds excited her curiosity ; and, instead
of going to the ramparts, she went to an
upper casement, from whence she saw, in
the court below, a large party of horsemen,
dressed in a singular, but uniform habit,
and completely though variously aimed.
They wore a kind of short jacket, com-
posed of black and scarlet, and several of
them had a cloak, of plain black, which
covering the person entirely, hung down to
the stirrups. As one of these cloaks glanced
aside, she saw beneath, daggers, apparently
of different sizes, tucked into the horseman's
nelt. She further observed, that those were
carried in the same manner, by many of the
horsemen without cloaks, most of whom
bore also pikes or javelins. On their heads
were the small Italian caps, some of
which were distinguished by black feathers.
Whether these caps gave a fiercer air to the
countenance, or that the countenances they
surmounted had naturally such an ap-
pearance, Emily thought she had never till
then seen such an assemblage of faces so
savage and terrific. While she gazed, she
almost fancied herself surrounded by ban-
ditti ; and a vague thought glanced athwart
her fancy— that Montoni was the captain of
the groupe before her, and that this castle
was to be the place of rendezvous. The
strange and horrible supposition was but
momentary, though her reason could
supply none more probable, and though she
discovered, among the band, the strangers
she had formerly noticed with so much
alarm, who were now distinguished by the
black plume.

While she continued gazing, Gavigni,
Verezzi, and Bei tolini, came forth from the
hall, habited like the rest, except that they
wore hats with a mixed plume of black and
t carlet, and that their arms differed from
those of the rest of the party. As they
mounted their horses, Emily was struck
with the exulting joy ex pressed om the visage
of Verezzi, while Cavigni was gay, yet with
a shade of thought on his countenance j and
as he managed his horse with dexterity, his

graceful and commanding figure, which ex-
hibited the majesty of a hero, had never
appeared to more advantage. Emily, as
she observed him, thought he somewhat re-
sembled Valancourt, in the spirit and dignit 7
of his person ; but she looked in vain for
the noble, benevolent countenance— the
soul's intelligence, which overspread the
features of the latter.

As she was hoping, she scarcely knew
why, that Montoni would accompany the
party, he appeared at the hall-door, but un-
accoutred. Having carefully observed the
horsemen, conversed awhile with the cava-
liers, and bidden them farewell, the band
wheeled round the court, and, led by Ve-
rezzi, issued forth under the portcullis ;
Montoni following to the portal, and gazing
after them for some time. Emily then re-
tired from the casement, and, now certain of
being unmolested, went to walk on the ram*
parts, from whence she soon after saw the
party winding among the mountains to the
west, appearing and disappearing between
the woods, till distance confused their
figures, consolidated their numbers, and
only a dingy mass appeared moving along
the heights.

Emily observed that no workmen were on
the ramparts, and that the repairs of the for-
tifications seemed to be completed. While
she sauntered thoughtfully on, she heard dis
tant footsteps, and, raising her eyes, saw
several men lurking under the castle walls,
who were evidently not workmen, but look-
ed as if they would have accorded well with
the party which was gone. Wondering
where Annette had hid herself so long, who
might have explained some of the late cir-
cumstances, and then considering that Ma-
dame Montoni was probably risen, she went
to her dressing-room, where she mentioned
what had occurred ; but Madame Montoni
either would not, or could not, give any ex*
planation of the event. The signer's reserve
to his w ife, on this subject, was probably
nothing more than usual ; yet to Emily it
gave an air of mystery to the whole affair,
that seemed to hint there was danger, if not
villany, in his schemes.

Annette presently came, and, as usual,
was full of alarm ; to her lady's eager in-
quiries of what she had heard among the
servants, she replied :

" Ah, madam ! nobody knows what it is
all about, but old Carlo; he knows well
enough, but I dare say he is as close as his
master. Some say the signor is going out
to frighten the enemy, as they call it : but
where is the enemy ? Then others say he is
going to take away somebody's castle : but
I am sure he has room enough m his own
without taking other people's j and I am
sure I should like it a great deal better, J
there were more people to fill it.

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

149

*' Ah > you will soon have your wish, 1
fattr,1' replied Madame Montoni.

" No, madam, but such ill-looking fel-
lows are not worth having. 1 mean such
gallant, smart, merry fellows as Ludovico,
who is always telling droll stories to make
one laugh. It was but yesterday he told me
such a humoursome tale ! I can't help laugh-
ing at it now.— Says he "

u Well, we can dispense with the story,"
said her lady. " Ah !" continued Annette,
a he sees a great way, a great way further
than other people ! Now he sees into all
the signor's meaning, without knowing a
word about the matter !"

" How is that ?" said Madame Montoni.

" Why he says — but he made me promise
not to tell, and 1 would not disoblige him for
the world."

" What is it he made you promise not to
tell ?" said her lady, sternly. " I insist
upon knowing immediately— what is it he
made you promise V*

" O madam," cried Annette, " 1 would not
tell for the universe !" — " I insist upon
your telling this instant," said Madame
Montoni. " O dear madam ! I would not
tell for an hundred sequins ! You would not
have me forswear myself, madam !" ex-
claimed Annette.

" I will not wait another moment," said
Madame Montoni. Annette was silent.

" The signor shall be informed of this di-
rectly," rejoined her mistress : " he will
make you discover all."

" It is Ludovico who has discovered," said
Annette : " but for mercy's sake, madam,
don't tell the signor, and you shall know all
directly." Madame Montoni said that she
would not.

" Well, then, madam, Ludovico says, that
the signor, my master, is — is — that is, he
only thinks so, and any body, you know,
madam, is free to think — that the signor, my
master, is— is— "

" Is what ?" said her lady, impatiently.

" That the signor, my master, is going to
be — a great robber — that is — he is going to
rob on his own account ; — to be (but I am
sure I don't understand what he means) — to
be a— captain of — robbers."

u Art thou in thy senses, Annette ?" said
Madame Montoni ; or is this a trick to de-
ceive me ? Tell me, this instant, what Lu-
dovico did say to thee ; — no equivocation 5
—this instant." —

" Nay, madam," cried Annette, " if this
is all I am to get for having told the secret"
— Her mistress thus continued to insist, and
Annette to protest, till Montoni himself ap-
peared, who bade the latter leave the room,
and she withdrew, trembling for the fate of
her story. Emily also was retiring, but her
aunt desired she would stay 5 and Montoni

had so often made her a witness of their con
tention, that he no longer had scruples on
that account.

w I insist upon knowing this instant,
signor, what all this means," said his
wife: — " what are all these armed men
whom they tell me of, gone out about?"
Montoni answered her only with a look of
scorn ; and Emily whispered something to
her. " It does not signify," said her aunt :
" I will know ; and I will know, too, what
the castle has been fortified for."

" Come, come," said Montoni, " other
business brought me here. I must be trifled
with no longer. I have immediate occasion
for what I demand — those estates must be
given up, without further contention 5 or I
may find away "

" They never shall be given up," inter-
rupted Madame Montoni : " they never shall
enable you to carry on your wild schemes :
— but what are these? I will know. Do
you expect the castle to be attacked ? Do
you expect enemies ? Am I to be shut up
here, to be killed in a siege ?"

" Sign the writing," said Montoni, " and
you shall know more."

" What enemy can be coming ?" con-
tinued his wife. « Have you entered into
the service of the state ? Am I to be block-
ed up here to die ?"

« That may possibly happen," said Mon-
toni, " unless you yield to my demand : for,
come what may, you shall not quit the castle
till then." Madame Montoni burst into
loud lamentation, which she as suddenly
checked, considering that her husband's as-
sertions might be only artifices employed to
extort her consent. She hinted this suspi-
cion, and, in the nex,t moment, told him also,
that his designs were not so honourable as to
serve the state, and that she believed he had
only commenced a captain of banditti, to
join the enemies of Venice in plundering
and laying waste the surrounding country.

Montoni looked at her for a moment with
a steady and stern countenance ; while Emi-
ly trembled, and his wife, for once, thought
she had said too much. " You shall be re-
moved this night," said he, " to the east tur-
ret : there, perhaps, you may understand the
danger of offending a man who has an unli-
mited power over you."

Emily now fell at his feet, and, with tears
of teiTor, supplicated for her aunt, who sat
trembling with fear and indignation, now
ready to pour forth execrations, and now. to
join the intercessions of Emily. Montoni.
however, soon interrupted these entreaties
with an horrible oath ♦, and, as he burst from
Emily, leaving his cloak in her hand, she fell
to the floor, with a force that occasioned hei
a severe blow on the forehead. But he quit-
ted the room, without attempting to raise

150

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

her, whose attention was called from herself
by a deep groan from Madame Montoni,
who continued otherwise unmoved in her
chair, and had not fainted. Emily, hasten-
ing to her assistance, saw her eyes rolling,
and her features convulsed.

Having spoken to her without receiving
an answer, she brought water, and support-
ed her head, while she held it to her lips 5
but the increasing convulsions soon com-
pelled Emily to call for assistance. On her
way through the hall, in search of Annette,
she met Montoni, whom she told what had
happened, and conjured to return and com-
fcvt her aunt 5 but lie turned silently away,
w fai a look of indifference, and went out
upon the ramparts. At length she found
old Carlo and Annette, and they hastened to
the dressing-room, where Madame Montoni
had fallen on the floor, and was lying in
strong convulsions. Having lifted her into
the adjoining room, and laid heron the bed,
the force of her disorder still made all their
strength necessary to hold her, while Annette
trembled and sobbed, and old Carlo looked
silently and piteously on, as his feeble hands
grasped those of his mistress, till, turning
his eyes upon Emily, he exclaimed, " Good
God ! signora, what is the matter ?"

Emily looked calmly at him, and si.w his
inquiring eyes fixed on her : and Annette,
looking up, screamed loudly ; for Emily's
face was stained with blood, which continu-
ed to fall slowly from her forehead : but her
a'rentionhad been so entirely occupied by
the scene before her, that she had felt no
pain from the wound. She now held an
handkerchief to her face, and, notwitnstand-
ing her faintness, continued to watch Ma-
dame Montoni, the violence of whose con-
vulsions was abating, till at length they
ceased, and left her in a kind of stupor.

ff* My aunt must remain quiet," said
Emily. " Go, good Carlo ; if we should
want your assistance, I will send for you.
In the mean time, if you have an opportu-
nity, speak kindly of your mistress to your
master."

" Alas !" said Carlo, " I have seen too
much ! I have little influence with the sig-
nor. But do, dear young lady, take some
care of yourself ; that is an ugly wound, and
you look sadly."

" Thank you, my friend, for your consi-
deration," said Emily, smiling kindly : " the
wound is trifling, it came by a fall.'*

Carlo shook his head, and left the room ;
and Emily, with Annette, continued to watch
by her aunt. " Did my lady tell the signor
what Ludovico said, ma'amselle?" asked
Annette in a whisper ; but Emily quieted
her fears on that subject.

u I thought what this quarrelling would
come .to," continued Annette: " I suppose
the signor has been beating ray lady."

" No, no* Annette, you are totally mis
taken; nothing extraordinary has hap.
pened."

" Why, extraordinary things happen here
so often, ma'amselle, that there is nothing
in them. Here is another legion of those
ill-looking fellows come to the castle this
morning."

" Hush ! Annette, you will disturb my
aunt ; we will talk of that by and bye."

They continued watching silently, till Ma-
dame Montoni uttered a low sigh, when
Emily took her hand, and spoke soothingly
to her ; but the former gazed with uncon-
scious eyes, and it was long before she knew
her niece. Her first words then inquired for
Montoni ; to which Emily replied by an en-
treaty, that she would compcse her spirits,
and consent to be kept qu iet, adding, that if
she wished any message to be conveyed to
him, she would herself deliver it. " No,"
said her aunt, faintly, " no — I have nothing
new to tell him. Does he persist in saying {
shall be removed from my chamber ?"

Emily replied, that he had not spoken on
the subject since Madame Montoni heard
him ; and then she tried to divert her atten
tion to some other topic ; but her aunt seem-
ed to be inattentive to what she said, and
lost in ^cret thoughts. Emily, having
brought her some refreshment, now left her
to the care of Annette, and went in search of
Montoni, whom she found on a remote part
of the rampart, conversing among a groupe
of the men described by Annette. They
stood around him with fierce, yet subjugat-
ed, looks, while he, speaking earnestly, and
pointing to the walls, did not perceive Emi-
ly, who remained at some distance, waiting
till he should be at leisure, and observing in-
voluntarily the appearance of one man*
more savage than his fellows, who stood
resting on his pike, and looking, over the
shoulders of a comrade, at Montoni, to
whom he listened with uncommon earnest
ness. This man was apparently of low con
dition ; yet his looks appeared hot to ac-
knowledge the superiority of Montoni, as
did those of his companions ; and sometimes
they even assumed an air of authority, which
the decisive manner of Hie signor could not
repress. Some few words of Montoni then
passed in the wind 5 and, as the men were
separating, she heard him say, " This even-
ing, then, begin the watch at sun-set."

" At sun-set, signor," replied one or two
of them, and walked away ; while Emily
approached Montoni, who appeared desirous
of avoiding her: but, though she observed
this, she had courage to proceed. She en-
deavoured to intercede once more for her
aunt, represented to him her sufferings, and
urged the danger of exposing her to a cold
apartment in her present state. u She suffers
by her o\ui folly," said Montoni, "and is. r.of

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLI'HO.

M

to be pitied ;*— she knows how she may avoid
these sufferings in future— if she is removed
to the turret, it will he her own fault. Let
her he ohedient, and sign the writings you
heard of, and ( will think no more of it."

When Emily ventured stiil to plead, he
sternly silenced and rebuked her for inter-
fering in his domestic affairs, but at length
dismissed her with this concession— That he
would not remove Madame Montoni on the
ensuing nighty but allow her till the next to
consider, whether she would resign her set-
tlements, or be imprisoned in the east turret
of the castle, " where she shall find," lie
added, "a punishment she may not expect."

Emily then hastened to inform her aunt
of this short respite, and of the alternative
that awaited her, to which the latter made
no reply, but appeared thoughtful, while
Emily, in consideration of her extreme lan-
guor, wished to sooth her mind by leading it
to less interesting topics : and, though these
efforts were unsuccessful, and Madame
Montoni became peevish, her resolution, on
the contended point, seemed somewhat to
relax, and Emily recommended, as her only
means of safety, that she should submit to
Montoni's demand. " You know not what
you advise," said her aunt. " Do you un-
derstand that these estates will descend to
you at my death, if I persist in a refusal ?"

w I was ignorant of that circumstance,
madam," replied Emily, " but the knowledge
of it cannot withhold me from advising you
to adopt the conduct, which not only your
peace, but, I fear, your safety, requires, and
1 entreat that you will not suffer a conside-
ration, comparatively so trifling, to make
you hesitate a moment in resigning them."

" Are you sincere, niece?" " Is it possi-
ble you can doubt it, madam ?" Her aunt
appeared to be affected. " You are not un-
worthy of these estates, niece," said she : " I
would wish to keep them for your sake— you
show a virtue I did not expect."

M How have I deserved this reproof, ma-
dam," said Emily, sorrowfully.

" Reproof!" replied Madame Montoni :
" I meant to praise your virtue."

" Alas! here is no exertion of virtue," re-
joined Emily, " for here is no temptation to
be overcome."

"Yet Monsieur Valancourt" — said her
aunt. " O, Madam '."interrupted Emily, anti-
cipating what she would have said, " do not
let me glance on that subject: do not let my
mind be stained with a wish so shockingly
self-interested." She immediately changed
the topic, and continued with Madame Mon-
toni till she withdrew to her apartment for
the night.

At that hour the castle was perfectly still,
and every inhabitant of it, except herself,
seemed to have retired to rest. As she pass-

ed along the wide and lonely galleries, dusky
and silent, she felt forlorn, and apprehensive
of — she scarcely knew what ; but when, en-
tering the corridor, she recollected the inci-
dent of the preceding' night, a dread seized
her, lest a subject of alarm, similar to tnat
which had befallen Annette, should occur to
her, and which, whether real or ideal, would,
she felt, have an almost equal effect upon
her weakened spirits. The chamber, to
which Annette had alluded, she did not ex-
actly know, but understood it to be one of
those she must pass in the way to her own;
and, sending a fearful look forward into the
gloom, she stepped lightly and cautiously
along, till coming to a door, from whence
issued alow sound, she hesitated and paused;
and, during the delay of that moment, her
fears so much increased, that she had no
power to move from the spot. Believing
that she heard a human voice within, she was
somewhat revived; but, in the next mo-
ment, the door >vas opened, and a person,
whom she conceived to be Montoni, ap-
peared, who instantly started back, and
closed it, though not before she had seen,
by the light that burned in the chamber,
another person sitting in a melancholy
attitude by the fire. Her terror vanished,
but her astonishment only began, which
was now roused by the mysterious secrecy
of Montoni's manner, and by the discovery
of a person whom he thus visited at mid-
night, in an apartment which had long
been shut up, and of which such extraordi-
nary reports were circulated.

While she thus continued hesitating,
strongly prompted to watch Montoni\s mo-
tions, yet fearing to irritate him by appear-
ing to notice them, the door was again opened
cautiously, and as instantly closed as before.
She then stepped softly to her chamber,
which was the next but one to this, but, hav-
ing put down her lamp, returned to an ob-
scure corner of the corridor, to observe the
proceedings of this half-seen person, and
to ascertain whether it was indeed Montoni.

Having waited in silent expectation for a
few minutes, with her eyes fixed on the door,
it was again opened, and the same perron ap-
peared, whom she now knew to be Montoni.
He looked cautiously around, without per-
ceiving her, then, stepping forward, closed
the door, and left the corridor. Soon after,
Emily heard the door fastened on the inside,
and she withdrew to her chamber, wondering
at what she had witnessed.

It was now twelve o'clock. As she closed
her casement, she heard footsteps on the
terrace below, and saw imperfectly, through
the gloom, sevei al persons advancing who
passed under the casement. She then heard
the clink of arms, and in the next moment,
the watch- word ; when, recollecting the com-

152

THE MTfeTGKIES OF UDOLPHO.

raand she had overheard from Montoni, and
the hour of the night, she understood that
these men were, for the first time, relieving
guard in the castle. Having listened till all
was again still, she retired to sleep.

CHAP. XXIII.

" And shall no Ia,y of death
.. With pleasfng murmur sooth
Her parted soul 1
Shall no t«ar wet her grave?"

SAYER.

On the following morning, Emily went
early to the apartment of Madame Moutoni,
who had slept well, and was much recovered.
Her spirits also had returned with her health,
and her resolution to oppose Montoni's de-
mands revived, though it yet struggled with
her fears, which Emily, who trembled for
the consequence of further opposition, en-
deavoured to confirm.

Her aunt, as has been already shown, had
a disposition which delighted in contradic-
tion, and which taught her, when unpleasant
circumstances were offered to her under-
standing, not to inquire into their truth, but
to seek for arguments by which she might
make them appear false. Long habit had so
entirely confirmed this natural propensity,
that she was not conscious of possessing it.
Emily's remonstrances and representations,
therefore, roused her pride, instead of alarm-
ing or convincing her judgment, and she still
relied upon the discovery of some means by
which she might yet avoid submitting to the
demand of her husband. Considering that
if she could once escape from his castle, she
might defy his power, and, obtaining a deci-
sive separation, live in comfort on the es-
tates that yet remained for her, she men-
tioned this to her niece, who accorded with
her in the wish, but differed from her as to
the probability of its completion. She re-
presented the impossibility of passing the
gates, secured and guarded as they were,
and the extreme danger of committing her
design to the discretion of a servant, who
might either purposely betray, or acciden-
tally disclose it. — Montoni's vengeance
would also disdain restraint, if her intention
was detected : and, though Emily wished,
as fervently as she could do, to regain her
freedom, and return to France, she consult-
ed only Madame Montoni's safety, and per^
severed in advising her to relinquish her set-
tlement, without braving further outrage.

The struggle of contrary emotions, how-
ever, continued to rage in her aunt's bosom,
and she still brooded over the chance of ef-
fecting an escape. While she thus sat, Mon-
toni entered the room ; and, without noti-
cing his wife's indisposition, said, that he
Came to remind her of the impolicy of tri-
fling with him, and that he gave her only
till the evening to determine, whether she
ttouh' consent to his demand, or rum pel him

by a refusal to remove her to the east tur
ret. He added, that a party of cavaliers
would diiie with him that day, and that he
expected she would sit at the head of the
table, where Emily also must be present.-—
Madame Montoni was now on the point of
uttering an absolute refusal } but, suddenly
considering that her liberty during this en
tertainment, though circumscribed, might
favour her further plans, she acquiesced
with seeming reluctance, and Montoni soon
after left the apartment. His command
struck Emily with surprise and apprehen-
sion, who shrunk from the thought of being
exposed to the gaze of strangers, such as
her fancy represented these to be ; and the
words of Count Morano, now again recoil
lected, did not sooth her fears.

When she withdrew to prepare for dinner,
she dressed herself with even more simpli-
city than usual, that she might escape ob-
servation, a policy which did not avail her :
for, as she repassed to her aunt's apart
ment, she was met by Montoni, who cen-
sured what he called her prudish appear
ance, and insisted that she should wear the
most splendid dress she had, even that which
had been prepared for her intended nuptials
with Count Morano, and which, it now ap-
peared, her aunt had carefully brought with
her from Venice. This was made, not in the
Venetian, but in the Neapolitan fashion, so
as to set off the shape and figure to the ut-
most advantage. In it, her beautiful ches-
nut tresses were negligently bound up in
pearls, and suffered to fall back again on
her neck. The simplicity of a better taste
than Madame Montoni's was conspicuous in
this dress, splendid as it was ; and Emily's
unaffected beauty never had appeared more
captivatingly. She had now only to hope
that Montoni's order was prompted, not by
auy extraordinary design, but by an osten-
tation of displaying his family, richly at
tired, to the eyes of strangers ; yet nothing
less than his absolute command could have
prevailed with her to wear a dress that had
been designed for such an offensive purpose,
much less to have worn it on this occasion.
As she descended to dinner, the emotion of
her mind threw a faint blush over her coun-
tenance, and heightened its interesting ex-
pression ; for timidity had made her linger
in her apartment till the utmost moment ;
and when she entered the hall, in which a
kind of state dinner was spread, Montoni
and his guests were already seated at the
table. She was then going to place herself
by her aunt ; but Montoni waved his hand,
and two of the cavaliers rose, and seated her
between them.

The eldest of these was a tall man, with
strong Italian features, an aquiline nose,
and dark penetrating eyes, that flashed with
fire when his mind was agitated, and, even

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

153

in its state of rest, retained somewhat of the
wildness of the passions. His visage was
long and narrow, and his complexion of a
sickly yellow.

The other, who appeared to be about
forty, had features of a different cast, yet
Italian, and his look was slow, subtle, and
penetrating ; his eyes, of a dark grey, were
small and hollow 5 his complexion was a
sun-burnt brown; and the contour of his
face, though inclined to oval, was irregular
and ill-formed.

Eight other guests sat round the table,
who were all dressed in an uniform, and had
all an expression, more or less, of wild
fierceness, of subtle design, or of licentious
passions. As Emily timidly surveyed them,
she remembered the scene of the preceding
morning, and again almost fancied herself
surrounded by banditti ; then, looking back
to the tranquillity of her early life, she felt
scarcely less astonishment than grief at her
present situation. The scene in which they
sat assisted the illusion : it was an ancient
hall, gloomy from the style of its architec-
ture, from its great extent, and because al-
most the only light it received was from one
large Gothic window, and from a pair of
folding doors, which, being open, admitted
likewise a view of the west rampart, with
the wild mountains of the Apenniue beyond.

The middle compartment of this hall rose
into a vaulted roof, enriched with fret-work,
and supported,- on three sides, by pillars of
marble ; beyond these, long colonades re-
tired in gloomy grandeur, till the extent was
lost in twilight. The lightest footsteps of
the servants, as they advanced through
Ihese, were returned in whispering echoes,
and their figures, seen at a distance imper-
fectly through the dusk, frequently awa-
kened Emily's imagination. She looked al-
ternately at Montoni, at his guests, and on
the surrounding scene ; and then, remem-
bering her dear native province, her plea-
sant home, and the simplicity and goodness
of the friends whom she had lost, grief and
surprise again occupied her mind.

When her thoughts could return from
these considerations, she fancied she observed
an air of authority towards his guests, such
as she had never before seen him assume,
though he had always been distinguished by
an haughty carriage. There was something
also in the manners of the strangers, that
seemed perfectly, though not servilely, to
acknowledge his superiority.

During dinner the conversation was chiefly
on war and politics. They talked with
energy of the state of Venice, its dangers, the
character of the reigning Doge, and of the
.hief senators ; and then spoke of the state
of Rome. When the repast was over, they
i-ose, aud each filling his gobfet with wine
ft uin the gilded ewer that stood beside him,

drank " Success to our exploits !n Montoni
was lifting his goblet to his lips to drink
this toast, when suddenly the wine hissed,
rose to the brim, and, as he held the glass
from him, it burst into a thousand pieces.

To him, who constantly used that sort of
Venice glass, which had the quality of break-
ing upon receiving poisoned liquor, a sus-
picion that some of his guests had endea-
voured to betray him instantly occurred ;
and he ordered all the gates to be closed,
drew his sword, and, looking round on them,
who stood in silent amazement, exclaimed,
" Here is a traitor among us ! — let those
that are innocent assist in discovering the
guilty."

Indignation flashed from the eyes of the
cavaliers, who all drew their swords ; and
Madame Montoni, terrified at what might
ensue, was hastening from the hall, when
her husband commanded her to stay; but
his further words could not now be distin-
guished, for the voice of every person rose
together. His order that all the servants
should appear was at length obeyed, and
they declared their ignorance of any deceit,
a protestation which could not be believed ;
for it was evident that, as Montoni's liquor,
and his Only, had been poisoned, a deliberate
design had been formed against his life,
which could not have been carried so far to-
wards its accomplishment, without the con-
nivance of the servant who had the care of
the wine ewers.

This man, with another, whose face be-
trayed either the consciousness of guilt, or
the fear of punishment, Montoni ordered to
be chained instantly, and confined in a strong
room, which had forme" */ been used as a
prison. Thither, likewise, he would have
sent all his guests, had he not foreseen the
consequence of so bold and unjustifiable a
proceeding. As to those, therefore, he con-
tented himself with swearing, that no man
should pass the gates till this extraordinary
affair had been investigated; and then sternly
bade his wife retire to her apartment, whi-
ther he suffered Emily to attend her.

In about half an hour he followed to the
dressing-rooni ; and Emily observed, with
horror, his dark countenance and quivering
lip, and heard him denounce vengeance on
her aunt.

" It will avail you nothing," said he to
his wife, u to deny the fact — I have proof
of your guilt. Your only chance of mercy
rests on a full confession ; there is nothing
to hope from sullenhess or falsehood. Your
accomplice has confessed all."

Emily's fainting spirits were roused by
astonishment, as she heard her aunt accused
of a crime so atrocious ; and she could not
for a moment admit the possibility of her
guilt. Meanwhile Madame Montoni's agi
tation did not permit her to reply : alter

154

THE MYSTEKIES OV (JDOM'HO.

Iiately hen- complexion varied from livid
paleness to a crimson flush; and she trem-
bled, but whether with fear or with indig-
nation, it were difficult to decide.

a Spare your words," said Montoni, seeing
her about to speak ; " your countenance
makes full confession of your crime. You
shall be instantly removed to the east tur-
ret"

" This accusation,v said Madame Mon-
toni, speaking with difficulty, " is used only
as an excuse for your cruelty ; I disdain
to reply to it. You do not believe me
guilty."

" Signor," said Emily solemnly, " this
dreadful charge, I would answer with my
life, is false. Nay, signor," she added, ob-
serving the severity of his countenance,
* this is no moment for restraint on my
part. I do not scruple to tell you that you
are deceived — most wickedly deceived, by
the suggestion of some person, who aims at
the ruin of my aunt : it is impossible that
you could yourself have imagined a crime
so hideous."

Montoni, his lips trembling more than
before, replied only, " If you value your
own safety," addressing Emily, " you will
be silent. I shall know how lo interpret
your remonstrances, should you persevere
in them."

Emily raised her eyes calmly to heaven.
" Here is, indeed, then, nothing to hope!"
said she.

." Peace !" cried Montoni, " or you shall
find there is something to fear."

He turned to his wife, who had now reco-
vered her spirits, and who vehemently and
wildly remonstrated upon this mysterious
suspicion 5 but Montoni's rage heightened
with her indignation, and Emily, dreading
the event of it, threw herself between them,
and clasped his knees in silence, looking up
In his face with an expression that might
have softened the heart of a fiend. Whe-
ther his was hardened by a conviction of
Madame Montoni's guilt, or that a bare
suspicion of it made him eager to exercise
vengeance, he was totally and alike insen-
sible to the distress of his wife, and to the
pleading looks of Emily, whom he made no
attempt to raise, but was vehemently me-
nacing both, when he was called out of the
room by some person at the door. As he
shut the door, Emily heard him turn the
lock, and take out the key, so that Madame
Montoni and herself were now prisoners ;
and she saw that his designs became more
and more terrible. Her endeavours to ex-
plain his motives for this circumstance were
almost as ineffectual as those to sooth the
distress of her aunt, whose innocence she
could not doubt 5 but she at length ac-
counted for Montoni's readiness to suspect
his wife, by his own consciousness of cruelt?

towards her, and for the sudden violence of
his present conduct against both, before
even his suspicions could be completely
formed, by his general eagerness to effect
suddenly whatever he was led to desire, and
his carelessness of justice or humanity in
accomplishing it.

Madame Montoni, after some time, again
looked round, in search of a possibility of
escape from the castle, and conversed with
Emily on the subject ; who was now willing
to encounter any hazard, though she forbore
to encourage a hope in her aunt which she
herself did not admit. How strongly the
edifice was secured, and how vigilantly
guarded, she knew too well ; and trembled
to commit their safety to the caprice of the
servant, whose assistance they must solicit.
Old Carlo was compassionate, but he seemed
to be too much in his master's interest to
be trusted by them ; Annette could of her-
self do little, and Emily knew Ludovico
only from her report. At present, how-
ever, these considerations were useless ;
Madame Montoni and her niece being shut
up from all intercourse, even with the per^
sons whom there might be these reasons to
reject.

In the hall, confusion and tumult still
reigned. Emily, as she listened anxiously
to the murmur that sounded along the gal-
lery, sometimes fancied she heard the clash-
ing of swords ; and when she considered the
nature of the provocation given by Montoni,
and his impetuosity, it appeared probable
thai nothing less than arms would terminate
the contention. Madame Montoni, having'
exhausted all her expressions of indignation,
and Emily her's of comfort, they remained
silent, in that kind of breathless stillness,
which, in nature, often succeeds to the up-
roar of conflicting elements — a stillness like
the morning, that dawns upon the ruins ot
an earthquake.

An uncertain kind of terror pervaded
Emily's mind : the circumstances of the past
hour still came dimly and confusedly to her
memory j and her thoughts were various and
rapid, though without tumult.

From this state of waking visions she was
recalled by a knocking at the chamber-door,
and, inquiring who was there, heard the
whispering voice of Annette.

" Dear madam, let me come in ; I have a
great deal to say," said the poor girl.

" The door is locked," answered her lady.

" Yes, ma'am, but do pray open it."

" The signor has the key," said Afadame
Montoni.

" O blessed Virgin ! what will become of
us ?" exclaimed Annette.

" Assist us to escape," said her mistress.
w Where is Ludovico ?"

" Below in the hall, ma'am, amongst th< m
all, fighting with the best of them."

THE MYSTERIES OF tJDOLPHO.

m

€t flighting !-— Who are fighting ?" cried
Madame Montoni.

M Why, the signer* ma'am, and all the sig-
nors, and a great many more."

« Is any person much hurt ?" said Emily,
in a tremulous voice. — " Hurt ! — yes,ma'am-
selle ; there they lie bleeding, and the swords

are clashing, and O holy saints ! do let

me in, ma'am ; they are coming this way— •
I shall be murdered !"

" Fly 1" cried Emily, " fly ! — we cannot
open the door."

1 Annette repeated that they were coming,
and in the same moment fled.

" Be calm, madam," said Emily, turning
to her aunt, " I entreat you, be calm. I am
not frightened — not frightened in the least 5
do not you be alarmed."

"You can scarcely support yourself,"
replied her aunt. " Merciful God ! what is
it they mean to do with us ?"

" They come, perhaps, to liberate us,"
said Emily : " Signor Montoni perhaps is —
is conquered!"

The belief of his death gave her spirits a
sudden shock ; and she grew faint as she
saw him, in imagination, expiring at her "
feet.

" They are coming !" cried Madame Mon-
toni : " J hear their steps — they are at the
door !"

Emily turned her languid eyes to the door,
but terror deprived her of utterance. The
key sounded in the lock, the door opened,
and Montoni appeared, followed by three
ruffian-like men. " Execute your orders,"
said he, turning to them, and pointing to
his wife, who shrieked, but was immediately
carried from the room ; while Emily sunk
senseless on a couch, by which she had en-
deavoured to support herself. When she
recovered, she wir.s alone, and recollected
only that Madame Montoni had been there,
together with some unconnected particulars
of the preceding transaction, which were,
however, sufficient to renew all her terror.
She looked wihjly round the apartment, as
if in search of some means of intelligence
concerning her aunt ; while neither her own
danger, nor an idea of escaping from the
room, immediately occurred.

When her recollection was more complete,
she raised herself, and went, but with only a
faint hope, to examine whether the door was
unfastened. It was so •, and she then stepped
timidly out into the gallery, but paused
there, uncertain which way she should pro-
ceed. Her first wish was to gather some in-
formation as to her aunt ; and she at length
turned her steps to go to the lesser hall,
where Annette and the other servants usually
waited.

Every where, as she passed, she heard
from a distance, the uproar of contention, and
tlfc figures and faces which she met, hurry-
ittg nl^ng- the passages, struck her mind with

dismay. Emily might now have appeared
like an angel of light, encompassed by fiends.
At length she reached the lesser hall, which
was silent and deserted, but, panting for
breath, she sat down to recover herself.
The total stillness of this place was as
awful as the tumult, from which she had
escaped : but she had now time to recal her
scattered thoughts, to remember her per-'
soual danger, and to consider of some
means of safety. She perceived, that it
was useless to seek Madame Montoni,
through the wide extent and intricacies of
the castle, now, too, when every avenue
seemed to be beset by ruffians ; in this hall
she could not resolve to stay, for she knew
not how soon it might become their place of
rendezvous 5 and, though she wished to go
to her chamber, she dreaded again no en-
counter them on the way.

Thus she sat, trembling and hesitating,
when a distant murmur broke on the silence,
and grew louder and louder, till 'she distin-
guished voices and steps approaching. She
then »ose to go, but the sounds came along
the only passage by which she could depart,
and she was compelled to await in the hall
the arrival of the persons whose steps she
heard. As these advanced, she distinguished
groans, and then saw a man borne slowly
along by four others. Her spirits faltered
at the sight, and she leaned against the wall
for support. The bearers, meanwhile, en-
tered the hall, and, being too busily occupied
to detain, or even notice Emily, she at-
tempted to leave it ; but her strength failed,
and she again sat down on the bench. A
damp dullness came over her : her sight
became confused 5 she knew not what had
passed, or where she was, yet the groans of
the wounded person still vibrated on her
heart. In a few moments the tide of life
seemed again to flow ; she began to breathe
more freely, and her senses revived. She
had not fainted, nor had ever totally lost
her consciousness, but had contrived to sup-
port herself on the bench; still without
courage to turn her eyes upon the unfor-
tunate object which remained near her, and
about whom the men were yet too much en-
gaged to attend to her.

When her strength returned, she rose, and
was suffered to leave the hall, though her
anxiety, having produced some vain enquiries
concerning Madame Montoni, had thus made
a discovery of herself. Towards her cham-
ber she now hastened, as fast as her steps
would bear her, for she still perceived, upon
her passage, the sounds of confusion at a
distance, and she endeavoured, by taking
her way through some obscure rooms, to
avoid encountering the persons whose looks
had terrified her before, as well as those
parts of the castle where the tumult might
still rage.

At length she reached her chamber, and,

tftrt

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

having secured the door of the corridor* felt
herself, for a moment, in safety. A pro-
found stillness reigned in this remote
apartment, which not even the faint mur-
mur of the most distant sounds now reached.
She sat down near one of the casements,
and, as she gazed on the mountain-view
beyond, the deep repose of its beauty
struck her with all the force of contrast, and
she could scarcely believe herself so near a
scene of savage discord. The contending
elements seemed to have retired from their
natural spheres, and to have collected them-
selves into the minds of men, for there alone
the tempests now reigned.

Emily tried to tranquil lise her spirits, but
anxiety made her constantly listen for some
sound, and often look out upon the ram-
parts, where all, however, was lonely and
still. As a sense of her own immediate
danger had decreased, her apprehension con-
cerning Madame Montoni heightened, who,
she remembered, had been fiercely threat-
ened with confinement in the east turret,
and it was possible that her husband had
satisfied his present vengeance with this
punishment. She, therefore, determined,
when night should return, and the inha-
bitants of the castle should be asleep, to ex-
plore the. way to the turret, which, as the
direction it stood in was mentioned, appear-
ed not very difficult to be done. She knew
indeed that, although her aunt might be
there, she could afford her no effectual
assistance, but it might give her some com-
fort even to know that she was discovered,
and to hear t?ie sound of her niece's voice j
for herself, any certainty concerning Ma-
dame Montoni's fate, appeared more tole-
rable than this exhausting suspense.

Meanwhile Annette did not appear, and
Emily was surprised, and somewhat alarm-
ed for her, whom, in the confusion of the
late scene, various accidents might have
befallen, and it was improbable that she
would have failed to come to her apartment,
unless something unfortunate had happened.

Thus the hours passed in solitude, in
silence, and in anxious conjecturing. Being
not once disturbed by a message, or a sound,
it appeared that Montoni had wholly for-
gotten her, and it gave her some comfort to
find that she could be so unnoticed. She
endeavoured to withdraw her thoughts from
the anxiety that preyed upon them, but
they refused control j she could neither read
nor draw, and the tones of her lute were so
utterly discordant with the present state of
her feelings, that she could not endure them
for a moment.

The sun at length set behind the western
mountains ; his fiery beams faded from the
clouds, and then a dun melancholy purple
drew over them, and gradually involved the
fratures of the country below. Soon after,

the sentinels passed on the rampart to Com
mence the watch.

Twilight had now spread its gloom ovef
every object ; the dismal obscurity of her
chamber recalled fearful thoughts, but she
remembered that, to procure a light, she
must pass through a great extent of the
castle, and, above all, through the halls,
where she had already experienced so much
horror. Darkness indeed, in the present
state of her spirits, made silence and solitude
terrible to her ; it would also prevent the
possibility of her finding her way to the tur-
ret, and condemn her to remain in suspence
concerning the fate of her aunt j yet she
dared not to venture forth for a lamp.

Continuing at the casement, that she
might catch the last lingering gleam of
evening, a thousand vague images of fear
floated on her fancy. " What if some of
these ruffians," said she, "should find out
the private staircase, and in the darkness of
night steal into my chamber !" Then, recol-
lecting the mysterious inhabitant of the
neighbouring apartment, her terror changed
its object. " He is not a prisoner," said she,
" though he remains in one chamber, for
Montoni did not fasten the door, when he
left it j the unknown person himself did
this ; it is certain, therefore, he can come
out when he pleases."

She paused, for, notwithstanding the ter-
rors of darkness, she considered it to be very
improbable, whoever he was, that he could
have any interest in intruding upon her re-
tirement; and again the subject of her emo-
tion changed, when, remembering her near-
ness to the chamber where the veil had
formerly disclosed a dreadful spectacle, she
doubted whether some passage might not
communicate between it and the insecure
door of the staircase.

It was now entirely dark, and she left the
casement. As she sat with her eyes fixed
on the hearth, she thought she perceived
there a spark of light ; it twinkled and dis-
appeared, and then again was visible. At
length with much care, she fanned the em-
bers of a wood fire, that had been lighted
in the morning, into flame, and, having
communicated it to a lamp, which always
stood in her room, felt a satisfaction not to
be conceived, without a review of her situa-
tion. Her first care was to guard the door
of the staircase, for which .purpose she
placed against it all the furniture she could
move, a«d she was thus employed for some
time, at the end of which she had another
instance how much more oppressive mis-
fortune is to the idle than to the busy ; for,
having then leisure to think over all the cir-
cumstances of her present afflictions, she
imagined a thousand evils for futurity, and
these real and ideal subjects of distress alike
wounded her mind.

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

167

Thus heavily moved the hours till mid-
night, when she counted the sullen notes of
the great clock, as they rolled along the ram-
part, unmingled with any sound, except the
distant foot- fall of a sentinel, who came
to relieve guard. She now thought she
night venture towards the turret, and,
Having gently opened the chamber door to
examine the corridor, and to listen if any
uerson was stirring in the castle, found all
•round in perfect stillness. Yet no sooner
nad she left the room, than she perceived a
light flash on the walls of the corridor, and,
without waiting to see by whom it was carried,
she shrunk back, and closed her door. No
one approaching, she conjectured that it
was Montoni going to pay his midnight
visit to her unknown neighbour, and she
determined to wait till he should have re-
tired to his own apartment.

When the chimes had tolled another halt
hour, she once more opened the door, and,
perceiving that no person was in the cor-
ridor, hastily crossed into a passage thart led
along the south side of the castle towards
the staircase, whence she believed she could
easily find her way to the turret. Often
pausing on her way, listening apprehen-
sively to the murmurs of the wind, and
looking fearfully onward into the gloom of
the long passages, she at length reached
the staircase ; but there her perplexity
began. Two passages appeared, of which
she knew not how to prefer one, and was
compelled at. last to decide by chance
lather than by circumstances. That she en-
tered opened first into a wide gallery,
along which she passed lightly and swiftly ;
for the lonely aspect of the place awed her,
and she started at the echo of her own
steps.

On a sudden, she thought she heard a
voice, and, not distinguishing from whence
it came, feared equally to proceed or to re-
turn. For some moments she stood in an
attitude of listening expectation, shrinking
almost from herself, and scarcely daring to
look round her. The voice came again, but
though it was now near her, terror did not
allow her to judge exactly whence it pro-
ceeded. She thought, however, that it was
the voice of complaint, and her belief was
soon confirmed by a low moaning sound,
that seemed to proceed from one of the
chambers opening into the gallery. It in-
stantly occurred to her that Madame Mon-
toni might be there confined, and she ad-
vanced to the door to speak, but was checked
by considering that she was, perhaps, going
to commit herself to a stranger, who might
discover her to Montoni ; for, though this
person, whoever it was, seemed to be in
affliction, it did not follow that he was a
prisoner.

While these thoughts passed over her

mind, and left her still in hesitation, the
voice spoke again, and, calling, " Ludovico,"
she then perceived it to be that of Annette ;
on which, no longer hesitating, she went in
joy to answer her.

* Ludovico !" cried Annette, sobbing—
" Ludovico r

" It is I," said Emily, trying to open the
door. " How came you here ? Who shut
you up ?"

" Ludovico !" repeated Annette — " O
Ludovico !"

" It is not Ludovico, it is I— -mademoiselle
Emily."

Annette ceased sobbing and was silent.
• " If you can open the door, let me in,"
said Emily j " Here is no person to hurt
you."

" Ludovico ! — O, Ludovico !" — cried An-
nette.

Emily now lost her patience, and, her
fear of being overheard increasing, she was
even nearly about to leave the door, when
she considered that Annette might, possibly,
know something of the situation of Madame
Montoni, or direct her to the turret. At
length she obtained a reply, though little
satisfactory, to her questions, for Annette
knew nothing of Madame Montoni, and only
conjured Emily to tell her what was become
of Ludovico. Of him she had no informa
tion to give, and she again asked who had
shut Annette up.

" Ludovico," said the poor girl, " Ludo-
vico shut me up. When I ran away from
the dressing-room door to-day, I went I
scarcely knew where for safety j and, in this
gallery, here, I met Ludovico, who hurried
me into this chamber, and locked me up to
keep me out of harm, as he said. But he
was in such a hurry himself, he hardly spoke
ten words, but he told me he would come
and let me out when all was quiet, and he
took away the key with him. Now all these
hours have passed, and I have neither seen
nor heard a word of him ; they have murdered
him — I know they have !"

Emily suddenly remembered the wounded
person whom she had seen borne into the
servants* hall, and she scarcely doubted that
he was Ludovico; but she concealed the
circumstance from Annette, and endeavoured
to comfort her. Then, impatient to learn
something of her aunt, she again inquired
the way to the turret.

"O! you are not going, ma'amselle,"
said Annette ; " for Heaven's sake, do not
go and leave me here by myself."

is Nay, Annette, you do not think I cart
wait in the gallery all night," replied Emily,
w Direct me to the turret ; in the morning I
will endeavour to release you.w

" O holy Mary !" exclaimed Annette
" am I to stay here by myself all night ? 1
shall be frightened out of my senses, and 1

;58

THE MYSTERIES OF UBOLPIIO.

shall die of hunger ; 1 have had nothing to
eat since dinner !"

Emily could scarcely forbear smiling at
the heterogeneous distresses of Annette,
though she sincerely pitied them, and said
what she could to sooth her. At length,
she obtained something like a direction to
the east turret, and quitted the door, from
whence, after many intricacies and perplex
ities, she reached the steep and winding
stairs of the turret, at the foot of which she
stopped to rest, and to re-animate her cou-
rage with a sense of her duty. As she sur-
veyed this dismal place, she perceived a
door on the opposite side- of the staircase,
and, anxious to know whether it would lead
her to Madame Montoni, she tried to undraw
the bolts which fastened it, A fresher air
came to her face, as she unclosed the door,
which opened upon the east rampart, and
the sudden current had nearly extinguished
her light, which she now removed to a dis-
tance ; and again, looking out upon the
obscure terrace, she perceived only the faint
outline of the walls and of some towers,
while, above, heavy clouds, borne along the
wind, seemed to mingle with the stars, and
wrap the night in thicker darkness. As she
gazed, now willing to defer the moment of
certainty, from which she expected only
confirmation of evil, a distant footstep re-
minded her that she might be observed by
I he men on watch, and hastily closing the
door, she took her lamp, and passed up the
staircase. Trembling came upon her, as
she ascended through the gloom. To her
melancholy fancy this seemed to be a place
of death, and the chilling silence that reigned
confirmed its character. Her spirits fal-
tered. " Perhaps," said she, " I am come
hither* only to learn a dreadful truth, or to
witness some horrible spectacle \ I feel that
my senses would not survive such an addition
of horror."

The image of her aunt murdered — mur-
dered, perhaps, by the hand of Montoni, — rose
to her mind j she trembled, gasped for
breath — repented that she had dared to ven-
ture hither, and checked her steps. But,
after she had paused a few minutes, the con-
sciousness of her duty returned as she went
on. Still all was silent. At length a track
of blood, upon a stair, caught her eye ; and
instantly she perceived that the wall and
several other steps were stained. She paus-
ed, again struggled to support herself and
the lamp almost fell from her trembling
hand. Still no sound was heard, no living
being seemed to inhabit the turret ; a thou-
sand times she wished herself again in her
chamber ; dreaded to inquire further —
dreaded to encounter some horrible spec-
tacle, and yet could not resolve, now that
she was so near the termination of her
efforts, to desist from them. Having again

collected courage to proceed, after ascend-
ing about half way up the turret, she came
to another door, but here again she stopped
in hesitation ; listened for sounds within,
and then, summoning all her resolution, un-
closed it, and entered a chamber, which, as
her lamp shot its feeble rays through the
darkness, seemed to exhibit only dew-stained
and deserted walls. As she stood examining
it, in fearful expectation of discovering the
remains of her unfortunate aunt, she per-
ceived something lying in an obscure corner
of the room, and, struck with an horrible
conviction, she became for an instant mo-
tionless, and nearly insensible. Then, with
a kind of desperate resolution, she hurried
towards the object that excited her tenor,
when, perceiving the clothes of some person
on the floor, she caught hold of them, and
found in her grasp the old uniform of a sol-
dier, beneath which appeared a heap of
pikes and other arms. Scarcely daring to
trust her sight, she continued for some mo-
ments to gaze on the object of her late
alarm, and then left the chamber, so much
comforted and occupied by the conviction
that her aunt was not there, that she was go-
ing to descend the turret without inquiring
further 5 when, on turning to do so, she ob-
served, upon some steps on the second flight,
an appearance of blood, and remembering
that there was yet another chamber to be
explored, she again followed the windings of
the ascent. Still, as she ascended, the track
of blood glared upon the stairs.

It led her to the door of a landing-place
that terminated them, but she was unable to
follow it further. Now that she was so near
the sought-for certainty, she dreaded to
know it even more than before, and had not
fortitude sufficient to speak, or to attempt
opening the door.

Having listened in vain for some sound
that might confirm, or destroy her fears, she
at length laid her hand on the lock, and find-
ing it fastened, called on Madame Montoni ;
but only a chilling silence ensued.

" She is dead !" she cried, — " murdered !
—her blood is on the stairs !"

Emily grew very faint ; could support
herself no longer -, and had scarcely presence
of mind to set down the lamp, and place her-
self on a step.

When her recollection returned, she spoke
again at the door, and again attempted to
open it, and, having lingered for some time,
without receiving any answer, or hearing a
sound, she descended the turret, and with all
the swiftness her feebleness would permit,
sought her own apartment.

As she turned into the corridor, the door
of a chamber opened, from whence Montoni
came forth ; but Emily, more terrified than
ever to behold him, shrunk back into the
passage soon enough to escape being notice*!,

THE MYSTERIES Oi< t DOLPHO.

159

find heard him close the door, which she had
perceived was the same she formerly ob-
served. Having here listened to his depnrt-
ing" steps, till their faint sound was lost in
distance, she ventured to her apartment,
and securing- it once again, retired to her
bed, leaving the lamp burning on the hearth.
But sleep was fled from her harassed mind,
to which images of horror alone occurred.
She endeavoured to think it possible that
Madame Montoui had not been taken to the
turret ; but, when she recollected the former
menaces of her husband, and the terrible
spirit of vengeance which he had displayed
on a late occasion-, when she remembered his
general character, the looks of the men who
had forced Madame Montoni from her
apartment, and the written traces on the
stairs of the turret — she could not doubt
that her aunt had been carried thither, and
could scarcely hope that she had not been
carried to be murdered.

The grey of morning had long dawned
through her casements, before Emily closed
her eyes in sleep ; when weary nature, at
length, yielded her a respite from suffering.

CHAP. XXIV.

" Who rears the bloody hand V

SAYER.

Emily remained in her chamber on the
following morning, without receiving any
notice from Montoni, or seeing a human
being, except the armed men, who some-
times passed on the terrace. below. Having
tasted no food since the dinner of the pie-
ce ding day, extreme faintness made her feel
the necessity of quitting the asylum of her
apartment to obtain refreshment, and she
was also very anxious to procure liberty for
Annette. Willing, however, to defer ven-
turing forth, as long as possible, and consi-
dering whether she should apply to Mon-
toni, or to the compassion of some other
person, her excessive anxiety concerning her
aunt, at length, overcame her abhorrence of
his presence, and she determined to go to
him, and to entreat that he would suffer her
to see Madame Montoni.

Meanwhile, it was too certain, from the
absence of Annette, that some accident had
befallen Ludovico, and that she was still in
confinement ; Emily, therefore, resolved also
to visit the chamber where she had spoken
to her on the preceding night, and, if the
poor girl was yet there, to inform Montoni of
her situation.

It was near noon, before she ventured
from her apartment, and went first to the
South gallery, whither she passed without
meeting a single person, or hearing a sound,
except, now and then, the echo of a distant
footstep.

It was unnecessary to call Annette, whose
lamentations were audible, upon the hrst

approach to the gallery, and who, ben ailing
her own, and Ludovico's fate, told Emily
that she should certainly be starved to death
if she was not let out immediately. Emily
replied, that she was going to beg her re-
lease of Montoni : but the terrors of hunger
now yielded to those of the signor, and,
when Emily left her, she was loudly entreat-
ing that her place of refuge might be con-
cealed from him.

As Emily drew near the great hall, the
sounds she heard, and the people she met m
the passages, renewed her alarm. The lat-
ter, however, were peaceable, and did not
interrupt her, though they looked earnestly
at her as she passed, and sometimes spoke.
On crossing the hall towards the cedar room,
where Montoni usually sat, she perceived,
on the pavement, fragments of swords, some
tattered garments stained with blood, and
almost expected to have seen among them a
dead body ; but from such a spectacle she
was, at present, spared. As she approached
the room, the sound of several voices issued
from within, and a dread of appearing before
many strangers, as wel1 as of irritating
Montoni by such an inti**ion, made her
pause and falter from her purpose. She
looked up through the long arcades of the
hall, in search of a servant who might bear
a message, but no one appeared, and the up
gency of what she had to request made hep
still linger near the door. The voices with-
in were not in contention, though she dis-
tinguished those of several of the guests of
the preceding day ; but still her resolution
failed, whenever she would have tapped at
the door, and she had determined to walk hi
the hall, till some person should appear who
might call Montoni from the room, when, as
she turned from the door, it was suddenly
opened by himself. Emily trembled, and
was confused, while he almost started with
surprise, and all the terrors of his counte-
nance unfolded themselves. She forgot all
she would have said, and neither inquired for
her aunt, nor entreated for Annette, but
stood silent and embarrassed.

After closing the door, he reproved her for
a meanness, of which she had not been
guilty, and sternly questioned her what
she had overheard ; an accusation which re-
vived her recollection so far, that she assured
him she had not come thither with an in-
tention to listen to his conversation, but to
entreat his compassion for her aunt, and for
Annette. Montoni seemed to doubt this
assertion, for he regarded her with a scruti-
nising look ; and the doubt evidently arose
from no trifling interest. Emily then fur-
ther explained herself, and concluded with
entreating him to inform her where her aunt
was placed, and to permit that she might
visit her ; but he looked upon her only with
a malignant smile, which instantaneously

180

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

confirmed her worst fears for her aunt, and
at that moment she had not courage to re-
new her entreaties.

" For Annette," said he, " if you go to
Carlo, he will release the girl ; the foolish
fellow who shut her up died yesterday." —
Emily shuddered. " But my aunt, signor,"
said she, " O tell me of my aunt !"

" She is taken care of," replied Montoni
hastily; "I have no time to answer idle
questions."

He would have passed on, but Emily, in
a voice of agony that could not be wholly
resisted, conjured him to tell her where Ma-
dame Montoni was. While he paused, and
she anxiously watched his countenance, a
trumpet sounded •, and, in the next moment,
she heard the heavy gates of the portal open,
and then the clattering of horses' hoofs in
the court, with the confusion of many voices.
She stood for a moment hesitating whether
she should follow Montoni, who, at the
sound of the trumpet, had passed through
the hall ; and, turning her eyes whence it
came, she saw through the door, that opened
beyond a long perspective of arches into the
courts, a party of horsemen, whom she judged,
as well as the distance and her embarrass-
ment would allow, to be the same she had
seen depart a few days before. But she staid
not to scrutinize; for, when the trumpet
sounded again, the chevaliers rushed out of
the cedar room, and men came running into
the hall from every quarter of the castle.—
Emily once more hurried for shelter to her
own apartment. Thither she was still pur-
sued by images of horror. She re-considered
MontonFs manner and words, when he had
spoken of his wife ; and they served only to
confirm her most terrible suspicions. Tears
refused any longer to relieve her distress ;
and she had sat for a considerable time ab-
sorbed in thought, when a knocking at the
chamber-door roused her, on opening which
she found old Carlo.

" Dear young lady," said he, " I h&ve
been so flurried, I never once thought of you
till just now. I have brought you some
fruit and wine, and I am sure you must
stand in need of them by this time."

" Thank you, Carlo," said Emily ; " this
is very good of you. Did the signor remind
you of me?"

" No, signora," replied Carlo; " his ex-
cellenza has business enough on his hands."
Emily then renewed her inquiries concern-
ing Madame Montoni $» but Carlo had been
employed at the other end of the castle,
during the time that she was removed, and
he had heard nothing since concerning her.

While he spoke, Emily looked steadily at
him, for she scarcely knew whether he was
really ignorant, or concealed his knowledge
of the truth from a fear of offending his mas-
ter. To several questions concerning the

contentions of yesterday, he gave very li-
mited answers ; but told, that the dispute*
were now amicably settled, and that the sig-
nor believed himself to have been mistaken
ia his suspicions of his guests. " The fight-
ing was about that, signora," said Carlo ;
" but I trust I shall never see such another
day in this castle, though strange things are
about to be done."

On her inquiring his meaning, " All !
signora," added he, " it is not for me to be-
tray secrets, or tell all 1 think; but time
will tell."

She then desired him to release Annette ;
and having* described the chamber in which
the poor girl was confined, he promised to
obey her immediately, and was departing,
when she remembered to ask who were the
persons just arrived. Her late conjecture
was right : it was Verezzi, with his party.

Her spirits were somewhat soothed by this
short conversation with Carlo ; for, in her
present circumstances, it afforded some com-
fort to hear the accents of compassion, and
to meet the look of sympathy.

An hour passed before Annette appeared,
who then came weeping and sobbing. " O
Ludovico ! Ludovico !" cried she.

" My poor Annette !" said Emily, and
made her sit down.

"Who could have foreseen this, ma'am**
selle ? O miserable, wretched day '.—-that
ever I should live to see it !" — and she con-
tinued to moan and lament, till Emily
thought it necessary to check her excess of
grief. " We are continually losing dear
friends by death," said she, with a sigh that
came from her heart. " We must submit to
the will of heaven ; our tears, alas ! cannot
recal the dead !"
Annette took the handkerchief from her face.

" You will meet Ludovico in a better
world, I hope," added Emily.

" Yes — yes — ma'amselle," sobbed An-
nette; " but I hope I shall meet him again
in this — though he is so wounded."

" Wounded !" exclaimed Emily; " does he
live?"

" Yes, ma'am, but — but he has a terrible
wound, and could not come to let me out.
They thought him dead at first, and he has
not been rightly himself till within this
hour.'1

" Well, Annette, I rejoice to hear he lives."

"laves! Holy Saints! why, he will not
die, surely!"

Emily said she hoped not; but this ex-
pression of hope Annette thought implied
fear, and her own increased in proportion as
Emily endeavoured to encourage her. To
inquiries concerning Madame Montoni she
could give no satisfactory answers.

lt 1 quite forgot to ask among the servants,
ma'amselle," said she, " for I could think of
nobody but poor Ludovico."

VHE MYSTTKIUES OF IJDOLPllO.

161

Annette's grief was now somewhat as-
suaged, and Emily sent her to make inqui-
ries concerning her lady, of whom, however,
she could obtain no intelligence, some of the
people she spoke with being really ignorant
of her fate, and others having probably re-
ceived orders to conceal it.

This day passed with Emily in continued
grief and anxiety for her aunt, but she was
unmolested by any notice from Montoni;
and, now that Annette was liberated, she
obtained food without exposing herself to
danger or impertinence.

Two following days passed in the same
manner, unmarked by any occurrence, during
which she obtained no information of Ma-
dame Montoni. On the evening of the se-
cond, having dismissed Annette, and retired
to bed, her mind became haunted by the
most dismal images, such as her long anxiety
concerning her aunt suggested ; and, unable
to forget herself for a moment, or to van-
quish the phantoms that tormented her, she
rose from her bed, and went to one of the
casements of her chamber to breathe a freer
aii*.

All without was silent and dark, unless
that could be called light which was only
the faint glimmer of the stars, showing im-
perfectly the outline of the mountains, the
western towers of the castle, and the ram-
parts below, where a solitary sentinel was
pacing. What an image of repose did this
scene present ! The fierce and terrible pas-
sions, too, which so often agitated the inha-
bitants of this edifice, seemed now hushed in
sleep ; — those mysterious workings that
rouse the elements of man's nature into tem-
pest, were calm. Emily's heart was not so ;
but her sufferings, though deep, partook of
the gentle character of her mind. Her's
was a silent anguish— weeping, yet endur-
ing ; not the wild energy of passion, in-
flaming imagination, bearing down the bar-
riers of reason, and living in a world of its
own.

The air refreshed her, and she continued
at the casement, booking on the shadowy
scene, over which the planets burned with a
clear light, amid the deep blue aether, as
they silently moved in their destined course.
She remembered how often she had gazed on
them with her dear father 5 how often he
had pointed out their way in the heavens,
and explained their laws 3 and these reflec-
tions led to others, which, in an almost
equal degree, awakened her grief and asto-
nishment.

They brought a retrospect of all the strange
and mournful events which had occurred
since she lived in peace with her parents ; —
and to Emily, who had been so tenderly edu-
cated, so tenderly loved 5 who once knew
only goodness and happiness, — to her the
late events and her present situation—in a
M

foreign laud — in a remote castle — simouiut.
ed by vice and violence, seemed more like
the visions of a distempered imagination,
than the circumstances of truth. She wept
to think of what her parents would have
suffered, could they have foreseen the event*
of her future life.

While she raised her streaming eyes tc
heaven, she observed the same planet which,
she had seen in Languedoc, on the night
preceding her father's death, rise above the
eastern towers of the castle, while she re-
membered the conversation which had passed
concerning the probable state of departed
souls 5 remembered also the solemn music
she had heard, and to which the tenderness
of her spirits had, in spite of her reason,
given a superstitious meaning. At these
recollections she wept again, and continued
musing, when suddenly the notes of sweet
music passed on the air. A superstitious
dread stole over her : she stood listening fpr
some moments, in trembling expectation,
and then endeavoured to re-collect hei
thoughts, and to reason herself into compo
sure j but human reason cannot establish
her laws on subjects lost in the obscurity oi
imagination, any more than the eye can as-
certain the form of objects that only glim-
mer through the dimness of night.

Her surprise, on hearing such soothing and
delicious sounds, was, at least, justifiable:
for it was long, very long, since she had
listened to any thing like melody. The
fierce trumpet and the shrill fife were the
only instruments she had heard since h r
arrival at Udolpho.

When her mind was somewhat more com.
posed, she tried to ascertain from what quar
ter the sounds proceeded, and thought they
came from below ; but whether from a room
of the castle, or from the terrace, she could
not with certainty judge. Fear and surprise
now yielded to the enchantment of a strain
that floated on the silent night with the most
soft and melancholy sweetness. Suddenly it
seemed removed to a distance, trembled
faintly, and then entirely ceased.

She continued to listen, sunk in that plea-
sing repose which soft music leaves on the
mind, but it came no more. Upon this
strange circumstance her thoughts were long
engaged ; for strange it certainly was to hear
music at midnight, when every inhabitant of
the castle had long since retired to rest, and
in a place where nothing like harmony had
been heard before probably for many years.
Long-suffering had made her spirits pecu-
liarly sensible to terror, and liable to be af-
fected by the illusions of superstition. It
now seemed to her as if her dead father had
spoken to her in that strain, to inspire hei
with comfort and confidence, on the subject
which had then occupied her mind. Yet
reason told her that this was a wild conjee-

m

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO,

ture, and she was inclined to dismiss it •,
but, with the inconsistency so natural when
imagination guides the thoughts, she then
wavered towards a belief as wild. She re-
membered the singular event connected with
the castle, which had given it into the pos-
session of its present owner ; and when she
considered the mysterious manner in which
its late possessor had disappeared, and that
she had never since been heard of, her mind
was impressed with an high degree of solemn
awe 5 so that, though there appeared no clue
to connect that event with the late music,
she was inclined fancifully to think they had
some relation to each other. At this con-
jecture a sudden dullness ran through her
frame ; she looked fearfully upon the dus-
kiness of her chamber, and the dead silence
that prevailed there heightened to her fancy
its gloomy aspect.

At length she left the casement, but her
steps faltered as she approached the bed,
and she stopped and looked round. The
single lamp that burned in her spacious
chamber was expiring •, for a moment she
shrunk from the darkness beyond, and then,
ashamed of the weakness which, however,
she could not wholly conquer, went forward
to the bed, where her mind did not soon
know the soothings of sleep. She still mused
on the late occurrence, and looked with
anxiety to the next night, when, at the same
hour, she determined to watch whether the
music returned. " If those sounds were
human," said she, "I shall probably hear
them again."

CHAP. XXV.

M Then, oh, you blessed ministers above!
Keep me in patience ; and, in ripen'd time,
Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up
Iu countenance."

SHAKSPEAKE.

Annette came almost breathless to
Emily's apartment in the morning. " O,
ma'amselle," said she, in broken sentences,
" what news I have to tell ! I have found
out who the prisoner is — but he was no pri-
soner neither ; he that was shut up in the
chamber I told you of. I must think him a
ghost, forsooth t"

" Who was the prisoner ?" inquired Emily,
while her thoughts glanced back to the cir-
cumstance of the preceding night.

" You mistake, ma'am," said Annette ;
•* he was not a prisoner after all.''

« Who is the person, then ?"

« Holy Saints f rejoined Annette, " how
I was surprised ! I met him just now, on
the rampart below there. I never was so
surprised in my life. Ah ! ma'amselle, this
is a strange place! I should never have
done wondering, if I was to live here an
hundred years. But, as I was saying, I met

him just now on the rampart, and I was
thinking of nobody less than of him."

" This trifling is insupportable," said
Emily; " pr'ythee, Annette, do not torture
my patience any longer."

" Nay, ma'amselle, guess— guess who it
was ; it was somebody you know very well."

" I cannot guess," said Emily, impati-
ently.

" Nay, ma'amselle, I'll tell you something
to guess by : a tall signor, with a longish
face, who walks so stately, and used to wear
such a high feather in his hat ; and used
often to look down upon the ground when
people spoke to him, and to look at people
from under his eyebrows, as it were, all so
dark and frowning. You have seen him,
often and often, at Venice, ma'am. Then
he was so intimate with the signor, too. —
And now I think of it, I wonder what he
could be afraid of in this lonely old castle,
that he should shut himself up for. But he
is come abroad now, for I met him on the
rampart just this minute. I trembled when
I saw him, for I always was afraid of him,
somehow, but I determined I would not let
him see it j so I went up to him, and made
him a low courtesy : * You are welcome to
the castle, Signor Orsino,' said 1."

" O, it was Signor Orsino, then !" said
Emily.

" Yes, ma'amselle, Signor Orsino himself
who cavised that Venetian gentleman to be
killed, and has been popping about from
place to place ever since, as I hear." •

" Good God !" exclaimed Emily, reco
vering from the shock of this intelligence,
" and is he come to Udolpho? He does well
to endeavour to conceal himself."

" Yes, ma'amselle ; but if that was all,
this desolate place would conceal him, with-
out his shutting himself up in one room.—
Who would think of coming to look for
him here ? I am sure I should as soon
think of going to look for any body in the
world."

"There is some truth in that," said Emily,
who would now have concluded it was Or-
sino's music which she had heard on the
preceding night, had she not known that he
had neither taste nor skill in the art. But,
though she was unwilling to add to the
number of Annette's surprises, by mention-
ing the subject of her own, she inquired
whether any person in the castle played on
a musical instrument.

" O yes, ma'amselle ; there is Benedetto
plays the great drum to admiration j and
then there is Launcelot the trumpeter ; nay
for that matter, Ludovico himself can play
on the trumpet — but he is ill now. I re-
member once "

Emily interrupted her : " Have you heara
no other music since you came to the castle ?
— none last night ?"

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

1fi3

c* Why, did pou hear any last night,
ma'amselle ?"

Emily evaded this question by repeating
her own.

" Why, no, ma'am," replied Annette ; " I
never heard any music here, I must say,
but the drums and the trumpet ; and as for
last night, I did nothing but dream I saw
my late lady's ghost."

" Your late lady's V said Emily, in a tre-
mulous voice ; " you have heard more then.
Tell me — tell me all, Annette, I entreat ;
tell me the worst at once."

" Nay, ma'amselle, you know the worst
already."

" I know nothing," said Emily.

" Yes, you do, ma'amselle ; you know
that nobody knows any thing about her ; and
it is plain, therefore, she is gone the way of
the first lady of the castle — nobody ever
knew any thing about her."

Emily leaned her head upon her hand,
and was, for some time, silent j then telling
Annette she wished to be alone, the latter
left the room.

The remark of Annette had revived Emily's
terrible suspicion concerning the fate of
Madame Montoni; and she resolved to
make another effort to obtain certainty on
this subject, by applying to Montoni once
more.

When Annette returned, a few hours after,
she told Emily that the porter of the castle
wished very much to speak with her, for
that he had something of importance to say.
Her spirits had, however, of late been so
subject to alarm, that any new circumstance
excited it ; and this message from the por-
ter, when her first surprise was over, made
her look round for some lurking danger, the
more suspiciously, perhaps, because she had
frequently remarked the unpleasant air and
countenance of this man. She now hesi-
tated whether to speak with him, doubting
even that this request was only a pretext to
draw her into some danger ; but a little re-
flection showed her the improbability of
this, and she blushed at her weak fears.

" I will speak to him, Annette," said she;
* desire him to come to the corridor imme-
diately."

Annette departed, and soon after returned.

" Barnardine, ma'amselle," said she, " dare
not come to the corridor, lest he should be
discovered, it is so far from his post, and he
dare not even leave the gates for a moment
now ; but if you will come to him at the
portal, through some round-about passages
he told me of, without crossing the courts,
he has that to tell which will surprise you ;
but you must not come through the courts,
test the signor should see you."

Emily, neither approving these < round-
about passages,' nor the other part of the
request, now positively refused to go. —

" Tell him," said she, " if he has any thing
of consequence to impart, I will hear him
in the corridor, whenever he has an oppor-
tunity of coming thither."

Annette went to deliver this message, and
was absent a considerable time. When she
returned, " It won't do, ma'amselle," said
she : " Barnardine has been considering all
this time what can be done ; for it is as
much as his place is worth to leave his post
now •,— but if you will come to the east
rampart, in the dusk of the evening, he can,
perhaps, steal away, and tell you all he has
to say."

Emily was surprised and alarmed at the
secrecy which this man seemed to think so
necessary, and hesitated whether to meet
him ; till, considering that he might mean
to warn her of some serious danger, she re-
solved to go.

" Soon after sun-set," said she, " I will
be at the end of the east rampart. But then
the watch will be set," she added, recollect-
ing herself 5 " and how can Barnardine pass
unobserved ?"

* That is just what I said to him, ma'am ;
and he answered me, that he had the key of
the gate, at the end of the rampart, that
leads towards the courts, and could let him-
self through that way ; and as for the sen-
tinels, there were none at this end of the
ferrace, because the place is guarded enough
by'the high walls of the castle, and the east
turret ; and, he said, those at the other end
were too far off to see him, if it was pretty
dusky ish."

" Well," said Emily, « I must hear what
he has to tell ; and, therefore, desire you
will go with me to the terrace this evening."

" He desired it might be pretty duskyish,
ma'amselle," repeated Annette, " because
of the watch."

Emily paused, and then said she would be
on the terrace an hour after sun-set ; " and
tell Barnardine," she added, " to be punc-
tual to the time ; for that I also may be ob-
served by Signor Montoni. Where is the
signor? I would speak with him."

" He is in the cedar chamber, ma'am,
counselling with the other signors. He is
going to give them a sort of a treat to-day,
to make up for what passed at the last, I
suppose ; the people are all very busy in the
kitchen."

Emily now inquired if Montoni expected
any new guests ; and Annette believed that
he did not. " Poor Ludovico !" added she ;
" he would be as merry as the best of them,
if he was well. But he may recover yet ;
Count Morano was wounded as bad as he,
and he is got well again, and is gone back
to Venice."

"Is he so?" said Emily. "When did
you hear this ?"

16*4

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

" I heard it last night, ma'amselle, but 1
forgot to tell it."

Emily asked some further questions ; and
then, desiring Annette would observe and
inform her when Montoni was alone, the
girl went to deliver her message to Barnar-
dine.

Montoni was, however, so much engaged
during the whole day, that Emily had no
opportunity of seeking a release from her
terrible suspense concerning her aunt. An-
nette was employed in watching his steps,
and in attending upon Ludovico, whom she,
assisted by Caterina, nursed with the utmost
care j and Emily was, of course, left much
alone. Her thoughts dwelt often on the
message of the porter, and were employed in
conjecturing the subject that occasioned it ;
which she sometimes imagined concerned
the fate of Madame Montoni ; at others that
it related to some personal danger which
threatened herself. The cautious secresy
which Barnardine observed in his conduct
inclined her to believe the latter.

As the hour of appointment drew near,
her impatience increased. At length the
sun set 5 she heard the passing steps of the
sentinels going to their posts, and waited
only for Annette to accompany her to the
teiTace, who soon after came, and they de-
scended together. When Emily expressed
apprehensions of meeting Montoni, or some
of his guests, " O ! there is no fear of that,
ma'amselle," said Annette •, " they are all
set in to feasting yet, and that Barnardine
knows."

They reached the first terrace, where the
sentinels demanded who passed ; and Emily
having answered, walked on to the east ram-
part, at the entrance of which they were
again stopped; and having again replied,
were permitted to proceed. But Emily did
not like to expose herself to the discretion
of these men at such an hour ; and, impa-
tient to withdraw from the situation, she
stepped hastily on in search of Barnardine.
He was not yet come. She leaned pensively
on the wall of the rampart, and waited for
him. The gloom of twilight sat deep on the
surrounding objects, blending, in soft con-
fusion, the valley, the mountains, and the
woods j whose tall heads, stirred by the even-
ing breeze, gave the only sounds that stole
on silence, except a faint, faint chorus of
distant voices, that arose from within the
castle.

« What voices are those?" said Emily, as
she fearfully listened.

« It is only the signor and his guests ca-
rousing," replied Annette.

« Good God 1" thought Emily, " can this
man's heart be so gay, when he has made
another being so wretched ?— if, indeed, my
aunt is yet suffered to feel her wretchedness !
Q ! whatever are my own sufferings, may my

heart never, never be hardened against those
of others !"

She looked up with a sensation of horror
to the east turret, near which she then stood
A light glimmered through the grates of the
lower chamber, but those of the upper one
were dark. Presently she perceived a person
moving with a lamp across the lower room
but this circumstance revived no hope con
cerning Madame Montoni, whom she had
vainly sought in that apartment, which had
appeared to contain only soldiers' accoutre-
ments. Emily, however, determined to at-
tempt the outer door of the turret as soon
as Barnardine should withdraw j and, if it
was unfastened, to make another effort to
discover her aunt.

The moments passed, but still Barnardine
did not appear ; and Emily, becoming un-
easy, hesitated whether to wait any longer.
She would have sent Annette to the portal
to hasten him, but feared to be left alone ;
for it was now almost dark, and a melan-
choly streak of red, that still lingered on the
west, was the only vestige of departed day.
The strong interest, however, which Bar-
nardine's message had awakened overcame
other apprehensions, and still detained her.

While she was conjecturing with Annette
what could thus occasion his absence, they
heard a key turn in the lock of the gate near
them, and presently saw a man advancing
It was Barnardine ; of whom Emily hastily
inquired what he had to communicate, and
desired that he would tell her quickly :*M for
I am chilled with this evening air," said she.

" You must dismiss your maid, lady," said
the man in a voice, the deep tone of which
shocked her : " what I have to tell is to you
only."

Emily, after some hesitation, desired An-
nette to withdraw to a little distance.—
" Now, my friend, what would you say ?"

He was silent a moment, as if considering,
and then said:

« That which would cost me my place, at
least, if it came to the signer's ears. You
must promise, lady, that nothing shall ever
make you tell a syllable of the matter. I
have been trusted in this affair $ and if it
was known that I betrayed my trust, my
life, perhaps, might answer it : but I was
concerned for you, lady, and I resolved to
tell you." He paused.

Emily thanked him ; assured him that he
might repose on her discretion, and entreated
him to dispatch.

"Annette told us, in the hall, how un
happy you was about Signora Montoni, and
how much you wished to know what was
become of her."

" Most true," said Emily eagerly ; " and
you can inform me. I conjure you tell me
the worst, without hesitation." She rested
her trembling arm upon the wall.

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOL1PHO.

16*.

* I can tell you/1 said Barnardine, and
paused.

Emily had no power to enforce her en-
treaties.

" I can tell you,** resumed Barnardine ;
« but "

" But what ?" exclaimed Emily, recover-
ing her resolution.

" Here I am, ma'amselle," said Annette ;
who, having heard the eager tone in which
Emily pronounced these words, came run-
ning towards her.

"Retire!" said Barnardine, sternly;
* you are not wanted :" and, as Emily said
nothing, Annette obeyed.

" I can tell you," repeated the porter ; —
" but I know not how : — you was afflicted
before? "

" I am prepared for the worst, my friend,"
said Emily, in a firm and solemn voice, " I
can support any certainty better than this
suspense."

" Well, signora, if that is the case, you
shall hear. — You know, I suppose, that the
signor and his lady used sometimes to disa.
gree. It is none of my concerns to inquire
what it was about ; but I believe you know
it was so."

" Well," said Emily, « proceed."

" The signor, it seems, had lately been
very wroth against her. I saw all, and heard
all — a great deal more than people thought
for ;— but it was none of my business, so I
said nothing. A few days ago, the signor
sent for me. < Barnardine,' says he, * you
are-— an honest man : I think I can trust
you.* I assured his excellenza that he could.
Then,' says he — as near as I can remem-
oer — <I have an affair in hand, which I
want you to assist me in.' Then he told me
what I was to do ; — but that I shall say
nothing about— -it concerned only the sig-
rora."

" O heavens !" exclaimed Emily—" what
nave you done ?"

Barnardine hesitated, and was silent.

" What fiend could tempt him, or you, to
such an act ?" cried Emily, chilled with hor-
ror, and scarcely able to support her fainting
spirits.

" It was a fiend," said Barnardine, in a
gloomy tone of voice. They were now both
silent : Emily had not courage to inquire
further, and Barnardine seemed to shrink
from telling more. At length he said, " It
is of no use to think of the past. The sig-
nor was cruel enough, but he would be
obeyed. What signified my refusing ? He
would have found others, who had no scru-
ples."

" You have murdered her, then!" said
Emily, in a hollow and inward voice—" I
am talking with a murderer !" Barnardine
stood silent ; while Emily turned from him,
and attempted to leave the place.

" Stay, lady !" said he. " You deserve to
think so still— since you can believe me ca
pable of such a deed."

" If you are innocent, tell me quickly,"
said Emily, in faint accents ; " for I feel I
shall not be able to hear you long."

" I will tell you no more," said he, and
walked away. Emily had just strength
enough to bid him stay, and then to call
Annette; on whose arm she leaned; and
they walked slowly up the rampart, till
they heard steps behind them. It was Bar-
nardine again.

" Send away the girl," said he, " and I will
tell you more."

" She must not go," said Emily : " what
you have to say she may hear."

" May she so, lady ?" said he. " You
shall know no more, then ;" and he was go-
ing, though slowly ; when Emily's anxiety,
overcoming the resentment and fear which
the man's behaviour had roused, she desired
him to stay, and bade Annette retire.

" The signora is alive," said he, " for me.
She is my prisoner, though : his excellenza
has shut her up in the chamber over the
great gates of the court, and 1 have the
charge of her. I was going to have told you,
you might see her — but now "

Emily, relieved from an unutterable load
of anguish by this speech, had now only to
ask Barnardine's forgiveness, and to con-
jure that he would let her visit her aunt.

He complied, with less reluctance than
she expected ; and told her, that if she would
repair on the following night, when the signor
was retired to rest, to the postern-gale of
the castle, she should, perhaps, see Madame
Montoni.

Amid all the thankfulness which Emily
felt for this concession, she thought she ob-
served a malicious triumph in his manner,
when he pronounced the last words ; but in
the next moment she dismissed the thought;
and, having again thanked him, commended
her aunt to his pity, and assured him, that
she would herself reward him, and would be
punctual to her appointment : she bade him
good night, and retired, unobserved, to her
chamber. It was a considerable time before
the tumult of joy, which Barnardine's unex-
pected intelligence had occasioned, allowed
Emily to think with clearness, or to be con-
scious of the real dangers that still surround-
ed Madame Montoni and herself. When
this agitation subsided, she perceived that
her aunt was yet the prisoner of a man, to
whose vengeance, or avarice, she might fall
a sacrifice ; and, when she further consider-
ed the savage aspect of the person who was
appointed to guard Madame Montoni, her
doom appeared to be already sealed— for
the countenance of Barnardine seemed to
bear the stamp of a murderer ; and, when
she had looked upon it, she felt inclined to

166

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

oeueve that there was no deed, however
black, which he might not be prevailed.upon
to execute. These reflections brought to
her remembrance the tone of voice in which
he had promised to grant her request to see
his prisoner •, and she mused upon it long,
in uneasiness and doubt. Sometimes she
even hesitated whether to trust herself with
him at the lonely hour he had appointed ;
and once, and only once, it struck her, that
Madame Montoni might be already mur-
dered, and that this ruffian was appointed
to decoy herself to some secret place, where
her life also was to be sacrificed to the ava-
rice of Montoni, who then would claim se-
curely the contested estates in Languedoc.
The consideration of the enormity of such
#uift did, at length, relieve her from the be-
lief of its probability, but not from all the
doubts and fears which a recollection of
Barnardine's manner had occasioned. .From
these subjects, her thoughts, at length,
passed to others ; and, as the evening ad-
vanced, she remembered, with somewhat
more than surprise, the music she had heard
on the preceding night, and now awaited its
return with more than curiosity.

She distinguished, till a late hour, the dis-
tant carousals of Montoni and his compa-
nions— the loud contest, the dissolute laugh,
and the choral song*, that made the halls re-
echo. At length, she heard the heavy gates
of the castle shut for the night, and those
sounds instantly sunk into a silence ; which
was disturbed only by the whispering steps
of persons passing through the galleries to
their remote rooms. Emily now, judging it
to be about the time when she had heard the
music on the preceding night, dismissed An-
nette, and gently opened the casement to
watch for its return. The planet she had so
particularly noticed, at the recurrence of the
music, was not yet risen ; but, with super-
stitious weakness she kept her eyes fixed on
that part of the hemisphere where it would
rise, almost expecting that, when it appear-
ed, the sounds would return. At length it
came, serenely bright, over the eastern
towers of the castle. Her heart trembled when
she perceived it ; and she had scarcely cou-
rage to remain at the casement, lest the re-
turning music should confirm her terror,
and subdue the little strength she yet re-
tained. The clock soon after struck one;
and, knowing this to be about the time when
the sounds had occurred, she sat down in a
chair near the casement, and endeavoured
to compose her spirits ; but the anxiety of
expectation yet disturbed them. Every
thing, however, remained still: she heard
only the solitary step of a sentinel, and the
lulling murmur of the woods below : and
•he again leaned from the casement, and
v-gain looked, as if for intelligence, to the

planet, which was now risen high above fh4
towers.

Emily continued to listen-— but no music
came. " Those were surely no mortal
sounds !" said she, recollecting their en-
trancing melody: " no inhabitant of this
castle could utter such : and where is the
feeling that could modulate such exquisite
expression ? We all know that it has been
affirmed celestial sounds have sometimes
been heard on earth. Father Pierre and Fa-
ther Antoine declared that they had some-
times heard them in the stillness of night,
when they alone were waking to offer their
orisons to heaven. Nay, my dear father
himself once said, that, soon after my mo-
ther's death, as he lay watchful in grief,
sounds of uncommon sweetness called him
from his bed ; and, on opening his window,
he heard lofty music pass along the mid-
night air. It soothed him, he said : he look-
ed up with confidence to heaven 3 and re-
signed her to his God."

Emily paused to weep at this recollection,
" Perhaps,1' resumed she — " perhaps those
strains 1 heard were sent to comfort, to en-
courage me ! Never shall I forget those I
heard, at this hour, in Languedoc ! Per-
haps my father watches over me at this mo-
ment !" She wept again in tenderness.
Thus passed the hour, in watchfulness and
solemn thought — but no sounds returned ;
and, after remaining at the casement till the
light tint of dawn began to edge the moun-
tain-tops, and steal upon the night-shade,
she concluded that they would not return,
and retired reluctantly to repose.

CHAP. XXVII.

" I will advise you where to plant yourselves,
Acquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time,
The moment on't ; for't must be done to-njght."

MACBETH.

Emily was somewhat surprised, on the
following day, to find that Annette had heard
of Madame Montoni's confinement in the
chamber over the portal, as well as of her
purposed visit there, on the approaching
night. That the circumstance, which Bar-
nard ine had so solemnly enjoined her to
conceal, he had himself told to so indiscreet
an hearer as Annette, appeared very impro-
bable, though he had now charged her with
a message, concerning the intended inter-
view. He requested, that Emily would
meet him, unattended, on the terrace, at a
little after midnight, when he himself would
lead her to the place he had promised ; a
proposal, from which she immediately
shrunk, for a thousand vague fears darted
athwart her mind, such as had tormented
her on the preceding night, and which she
neither knew how to trust, or to dismirs.

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

It frequently occurred to her, that Barna-
dine might have deceived her, concerning
Madame Montoni, whose murderer, perhaps,
he really was ; and that he had deceived her
by order of Montoni, the more easily to draw
her into some of the desperate designs of the
latter. The terrible suspicion, that Madame
Montoni no longer lived, thus came, accom-
panied by one not less dreadful for herself.
Unless the crime, by which the aunt had
suffered, was instigated merely by resent-
ment, unconnected with profit, a motive
upon which Montoni did not appear very
Jikely to act, its object must be unattained,
till the niece was also dead, to whom Mon-
toni knew that his wife's estates must de-
scend. Emily remembered the words, which
had informed her, that the contested estates
in France would devolve to her, if Madame
Montoni died, without consigning them to
her husband : and the former obstinate per-
severance of her aunt made it too probable,
that she had, to the last, withheld them. At
this instant, recollecting Barnard ine's man-
ner on the preceding night, she now believed
what she had then fancied, that it expressed
malignant triumph. She shuddered at the
recollection, which confirmed her fears, and
determined not to meet him on the terrace.
Soon after, she was inclined to consider these
suspicions as the extravagant exaggerations
of a timid and harassed mind, and could not
oelieve Montoni liable to such preposterous
depravity as that of destroying, from one
motive, his wife and her niece. She blamed
herself for suffering her romantic imagina-
tion to carry her so far beyond the bounds
of probability, and determined to endeavour
to check its rapid flights, lest they should
sometimes extend into madness. Still, how-
ever, she shrunk from the thought of meet-
ing Barnardine, on the terrace, at midnight ;
and still the wish to be relieved from this
terrible suspense, concerning her aunt, to
see her, and to sooth her sutierings, made
her hesitate what to do.

" Yet how is it possible, Annette, I can
pass to the terrace at that hour ?" said she,
recollectins: herself, " the sentinels will stop
me, and Signor Montoni will hear of the
affair."

" O ma'amselle ! that is well thought of,"
replied Annette. * That is what Barnardine
told me about. He gave me this key, and
bade me say it unlocks the door at the end
of the vaulted gallery, that opens near the
end of the east rampart, so that you need
not pass any of the men on watch. He bade
me say, too, that his reason for requesting
you to come to the terrace was, because he
could take you to the place you want to go
to, without opening the great doors of the
hall, which grate so heavily.**

Emily's spirits were somewhat calmed

If?

by this explanation, which seemed to be ho-
nestly given to Annette. « But why did he
desire I would come alone, Annette V9 said
she.

" Why that was what I asked him myself,
ma'amselle. Says I, Why is my young la-
dy to come alone ? — Surely I may come with
her !— What harm can I do ? But he said,
' No — no — I tell you not,' in his gruff way.
Nay says I, I have been trusted in as great
affairs as this, I warrant, and it's a hard
matter if 1 can't keep a secret now. Still he
would say nothing but 'No — no — no.' Well,
says I, if you will only trust me, 1 will tell
you a great secret, that was told me a month
ago, and I have never opened my lips about
it yet — so you need not be afraid of telling
me. But all would not do. Then, ma'am-
sell e, I went so far as to offer him a beauti-
ful new sequin, that Ludovico gave me for a
keep-sake, and I would not have parted
with it for all St. Marco's Place 5 but even
that would not do ! Now what can be the
reason of this? But I know, you know,
ma'am, who you are going to see."
" Pray did Barnardine tell you this?"
" He ! No, ma'amselle, that he did not,"
Emily enquired who did, but Annette
shewed, that she could keep a secret.

During the remainder of the day, Emily's
mind was agitated with doubts and fears and
contrary determinations, on the subject of
meeting this Barnardine on the rampart,
and submitting herself to his guidance, she
scarcely knew whither. Pity for her aunV
and anxiety for herself, alternately swaved
her determination, and night came, before
she had decided upon her conduct. She
heard the castle clock strike eleven — twelve
— and yet her mind wavered. The time,
however, was now come, when she could he-
sitate no longer : and then the interest shv
felt for her aunt overcame other considera-
tions, and, bidding Annette follow her to the
outer door of the vaulted gallery, and there
await her return, she descended from her
chamber. The castle was perfectly still,
and the great hall, where so lately sne had
witnessed a scene of dreadful contention,
now returned only the whispering footsteps
of the two solitary figures gliding fearfully
between the pillars, and gleamed only to the
feeble lamp they earned. Emily, deceived
by the long shadows of the pillars, and by
the catching lights between, often stopped,
imagining she saw some person moving in
the distant obscurity of the perspective 5
and, as she passed these pillars, she feared
to turn her eyes toward them, almost ex-
pecting to see a figure start out from behind
their broad shaft. She reached, however,
the vaulted gallery, without interruption,
but unclosed its outer door with a trembling
band, and, charging Annette not to quit it

rfis

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO,

and to keep it a little open, that she might
be heard if she called, she delivered to her
the lamp, which she did not dare to take
herself, because of the men on watch, and,
alone, stepped out upon the dark terrace.
Every thing was so still, that she feared,
lest her own light steps should be heard by
the distant sentinels, and she walked cauti-
ously towards the spot, where she had before
met Barnardine, listening for a sound, and
looking onward through the gloom in search
of him. At length, she was startled by a
deep voice, that spoke near her, and she
paused, uncertain whether it was his, till it
spoke again, and she then recognised the
hollow tones of Barnardine, who had been
punctual to the moment, and was at the
appointed place, resting on the rampart
wall. After chiding her for not coming
sooner, and saying, that he had been wait-
ing nearly half an hour, he desired Emily,
who made no reply, to follow him to the
door, through which he had entered the
terrace.

While he unlocked it, she looked back to
that she had left, and, observing the rays of
the lamp stream through a small opening,
was certain that Annette was still there.
But her remote situation could little be-
friend Emily, after she had quitted the ter-
race ; and, when Barnardine unclosed the
gate, the dismal aspect of the passage be-
yond, shewn by a torch burning on the
pavement, made her shrink from following
him alone, and she refused to go, unless
Annette might accompany her. This, how-
ever, Barnardine absolutely refused to per-
mit, mingling at the same time with his re-
fusal such artful circumstances to heighten
the pity and curiosity of Emily towards her
aunt, that she, at length, consented to fol-
low him alone to the portal.

He then took up the torch, and led her
along the passage, at the extremity of which
he unlocked another door, whence they de-
scended, a few steps, into a chapel, which,
as Barnardine held up the torch to light her,
Emily observed to be in ruins, and she im-
mediately recollected a former conversation
of Annette, concerning it, with very unplea-
sant emotions. She looked fearfully on the
almost roofless walls, green with damps, and
on the gothic points of the windows, where
the ivy and the briony had long supplied the
place of glass, and ran mantling among the
broken capitals of some columns, that had
once supported the roof. Barnardine stum-
oled over the broken pavement, and his
voice, as he uttered a sudden oath, was re-
turned in hollow echoes, that made it more
terrific. Emily's heart sunk; but she still
followed him, and he turned out of what had
Veen the principal aisle of the chapel.

Down these steps, lady," said Barnardine,

as he descended a flight, which appeared t«!
lead into the vaults; but Emily paused o?
the top, and demanded, in a tremulous ton©
whither he was conducting her.

" To the portal," said Barnardine.

" Cannot we go through the chapel to the
portal ?" said Emily.

" No, signora, that leads to the inner court,
which I don't choose to unlock. This way
and we shall reach the outer court pre-
sently."

Emily still hesitated ; fearing not only to
go on, but, since she had gone thus far, to
irritate Barnardine by refusing to go fur-
ther.

u Come, lady,** said the man, who had
nearly reached the bottom of the flight,
" make a little haste ; I cannot wait here all
night."

" Whither do these steps lead?" said
Emily, yet pausing.

" To the portal,'* repeated Barnardine,
in an angry tone ; " I will wait no longer."
As he said this, he moved on with the light,
and Emily, fearing to provoke him by fur-
ther delay, reluctantly followed. From the
6teps they proceeded through a passage ad-
joining the vaults, the walls of which were
dropping with unwholesome dews, and the
vapours that crept along the ground made
the torch burn so dimly, that Emily ex-
pected every moment to see it extinguished,
and Barnardine could scarcely find his way.
As they advanced, these vapours thickened j
and Barnardine, believing the torch was ex-
pired, stopped for a moment to trim it. As
he then rested against a pair of iron gates
that opened from the passage, Emily saw,
by uncertain flashes of light, the vaults be-
yond, and, near her, heaps of earth, that
seemed to surround an open grave. Such
an object, in such a scene, would, at any
time, have disturbed her ; but now she was
shocked by an instantaneous presentiment,
that this was the grave of her unfortunate
aunt, and that the treacherous Barnardine
was leading herself to destruction. The ob-
scure and terrible place to which he had
conducted her seemed to justify the thought :
it was a place suited for murder, a recep-
tacle for the dead, where a deed of horror
might be committed, and no vestige appear
to proclaim it. Emily was so overwhelmed
with terror, that, for a moment, she was
unable to determine what conduct to pursue.
She then considered that it would be vain to
attempt an escape from Barnardine by
flight, since the length and the intricacy of
the way she had passed would soon enable
him to overtake her, who was unacquainted
with the turnings, and whose feebleness
would not suffer her to run long with swift-
ness. She feared equally to irritate him by
a disclosure of her suspicions, which a re

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

160

fusal to accompany him further certainly
would do j and, since she was already as
much in his power as it was possible she
could be, if she proceeded, she at length de-
termined to suppress, as far as she could, the
appearance of apprehension, and to follow
silently whither he designed to lead her. —
Pale with horror and anxiety, she now
waited till Barnardine had trimmed the
torch; and, as her sight glanced again upon
the grave, she could not forbear enquiring
for whom it was prepared. He took his
eyes from the torch, aad fixed them upon
her face without speaking. She faintly re
peated the question, but the man, shaking
the torch, passed on, and she followed, trem-
bling, to a second flight of steps ; having as-
cended which, a door delivered them into
the first court of the castle. As they crossed
it, the light shewed the high black walls
around them, fringed with long grass and
dank weeds, that found a scanty soil among
the mouldering stones ; the heavy buttresses,
with here and there between them a narrow
grate, that admitted a freer circulation of
air to the court, the massy iron gates, that
led to the castle, whose clustering turrets
appeared above, and, opposite, the huge
towers and arch of the portal itself. In this
scene the large uncouth person of Barnar-
dine, bearing the torch, formed a characte-
ristic figure. This Barnardine was wrapt
in a long dark cloak, which scarcely allowed
the kind of half-boots, or sandals, that were
laced upon his legs, to appear, and shewed
only the point of a broad sword, which he
usually wore, slung in a belt across his
shoulders. On his head was a heavy flat
velvet cap, somewhat resembling a turban,
in which was a short feather 5 the visage be-
neath it showed strong features, and a coun-
tenance furrowed with the lines of cunning,
and darkened by habitual discontent.

The view of the court, however, re-ani-
mated Emily, who, as she crossed silently
towards the portal, began to hope that her
own fears, and not the treachery of Barnar-
dine, had deceived her. She looked anxi-
ously up at the first casement, that appeared
above the lofty arch of the portcullis ; but
it was dark, and she enquired whether it be-
longed to the chamber where Madame Mon-
toni was confined. Emily spoke low, and
Barnardine, perhaps, did not hear her ques.
tion, for he returned no answer ; and they,
soon after, entered the postern door of the
gate-way, which brought them to the foot
of a narrow staircase, that wound up one of
the towers.

" Up this staircase the signora lies," said
Barnardine.

" Lies !" repeated Emily faintly, as she
began to ascend.

" She lies in the upper chamber," said
Barnardine.

As they passed up, the wind, which poured
through the narrow cavities in the wall,
made the torch flare, and it threw a stronger
gleam upon the grim and sallow counte-
nance of Barnardine, and discovered more
fully the desolation of the place, the rough
stone walls, the spiral stairs, black with age,
and a suit of ancient armour, with an iron
visor, that hung upon the walls, and ap-
peared a trophy of some former victory.

Having reached a landing-place, " You
may wait here, lady," said he, applying a
key to the door of a chamber, " while I go
up and tell the signora you are coming."

" That ceremony is unnecessary," replied
Emily ; " my aunt will rejoice to see me."

" I am not so sure of that," said Barnar-
dine, pointing to the room he had opened \
" Come in here, lady, while I step up."L^v*,M

Emily, surprised and somewhat shocked,
did not dare to oppose him further, but, as
he was turning away with the torch, desired
he would not leave her in darkness. He
looked around, and, observing a tripod
lamp that stood on the stairs, lighted and
gave it to Emily, who stepped forward into
a large old chamber, and he closed the door.
As she listened anxiously to his departing
steps, she thought he descended, instead of
ascending, the stairs ; but the gusts of wind
that whistled round the portal would not
allow her to hear distinctly any other sound.
Still, however, she listened 5 and, perceiving
no step in the room above where he had
affirmed Madame Montoni to be, her anxiety
increased ; though she considered that the
thickness of the floor in this strong building
might prevent any sound reaching her from
the upper chamber. The next moment, in a
pause of the wind, she distinguished Bar.
nardine's step descending to the court, and
then thought she heard his voice \ but the
rising gust again overcoming other sounds,
Emily, to be certain on this point, moved
softly to the door, which, on attempting to
open it, she discovered was fastened. All
the horrid apprehensions that had lately as-
sailed her returned at this instant with re-
doubled force, and no longer appeared like
the exaggerations of a timid spirit, but
seemed to have been sent to warn her of her
fate. She now did not doubt that Madame
Montoni had been murdered, perhaps in this
very chamber, or that she herself was brought
hither for the same purpose. The counte
nance, the manners, and the recollected
words of Barnardine, when he had spoken of
her aunt, confirmed her worst fears. For
some moments she was incapable of consi-
dering of any means by which she might at-
tempt an escape. Still she listened, but
heard footsteps neither on the stairs, or in
the room above 5 she thought, however, that
she again distinguished Barnardine's voice
below, and went to a grated window, thai

MO

THE MYSTERIES' OF UDOLPI-IO.

opened upon the court, to enquire further.
Here she plainly heard his hoarse accents
mingling with the blast that swept by, but
they were lost again so quickly, that their
meaning could not be interpreted ; and then
the light of a torch, which seemed to issue
from the portal below, flashed across the
court, and the long shadow of a man, who
was under the arch-way, appeared upon the
paveme'nt. Emily, from the hugeness of
this sudden portrait, concluded it to be that
of Barnardine ; but other deep tones, which
passed in the wind, soon convinced her he
was not alone, and that his companion was
not a person very liable to pity.

When her spirits had overcome the first
shock of her situation, she held up the
lamp to examine, if the chamber afforded a
possibility of an escape. It was a spacious
room, whose walls, wainscoted with rough
oak, shewed no casement but the grated
one which Emily had left, and no other door
than that by which she had entered. The
feeble rays of the lamp, however, did not
allow her to see at once its full extent ; she
perceived no furniture, except, indeed, an
iron chair, fastened in the centre of the
chamber, immediately over which, depend-
ing on a chain from the ceiling, hung an
iron ring. Having gazed upon these, for
some time, with wonder and horror, she
next observed iron bars below, made for
the purpose of confining the feet, and on
the arms of the chair were rings of the same
metal. As she continued to survey them,
she concluded that they were instruments
of torture, and it struck her that some poor
wretch had once been fastened in this chair,
and had there been starved to death. She
was chilled by the thought ; but, what was
her agony, when, in the next moment, it oc-
curred to her, that her aunt might have
been one of these victims, and that she her-
self might be the next ! An acute pain
seized her head, she was scarcely able to
hold the lamp, and, looking round for sup*
port, was seating herself, unconsciously, in
the iron chair itself; but suddenly per-
ceiving where she was, she started from it in
horror, and sprung towards a remote end of
the room. Here again she looked round for a
seat to sustain her, and perceived only a dark
curtain, which descending from the ceiling
to the floor, was drawn along the whole
side of the chamber. Ill as she was, the
appearance of this curtain struck her, and
she paused to gaze upon it, in wonder and
apprehension.

It seemed to conceal a recess of the
chamber ; she wished, yet dreaded, to lift
it, and to discover what it veiled 5 twice
she was withheld by a recollection of the
terrible spetacle her daring hand had for-
merly unveiled in an apartment of the
castle, till suddenly conjecturing that it

concealed the body of her murdered aunt,
she seized it in a fit of desperation, and
drew it aside. Beyond, appeared a corpse,
stretched on a kind of low couch, which
was crimsoned with human blood, as was
the floor, beneath. The features, deformed
by death, were ghastly and horrible, and
more than one livid wound appeared in the
face. Emily bending over the body, gazed,
for a moment, with an eager, phrensied eye ;
but, in the next the lamp dropped from her
hand, and she fell senseless at the foot of
the couch.

When her Senses returned, she found
herself surrounded by men, among whom
was Barnardine, who were lifting her from
the floor, and then bore her along the
chamber. She was sensible of what
passed, but the extreme languor of her
spirits did not permit her to speak, or move,
or even to feel any distinct fear. They car-
ried her down the staircase, by which she
had ascended ; when, having reached the
archway, they stopped, and one of the men,
taking the torch from Barnardine, opened
a small door, that was cut in the great
gate, and, as he stepped out upon the road,
the light he bore shewed several men on
horseback, in waiting. Whether it was the
freshness of the air, that revived Emily,
or that the objects she now saw, roused
the spirit of her alarm, she suddenly spoke,
and made an ineffectual effort to disengage
herself from the grasp of the ruffians who
held her.

Barnardine, meanwhile, called loudly for
the torch, while distant voices answered,
and several persons approached, and, in the
same instant, a light flashed upon the court
of the castle. Again he vociferated for the
torch, and the men hurried Emily through
the gate. At a short distance^ under
the shelter of the castle walls, she perceived
the fellow, who had taken the light from
the porter, holding it to a man busily em-
ployed in altering the saddle of a horse,
round which were several horsemen look-
ing on, whose harsh features received the
full glare of the torch ; while the broken
ground beneath them, the opposite walls,
with the tufted shrubs, that overhung their
summits, and an embattled watch-tower
above, were reddened with the gleam which,
fading gradually away, left the remoter
ramparts and the woods below to the ob-
scurity of night.

" What do you waste time for, there ?**
said Barnardine with an oath, as he ap-
proached the horsemen. " Dispatch — dis-
patch !"

" The saddle will be ready in a minute,"
replied the man, who was buckling it, at
whom Barnardine now swore again for his
negligence, and Emily now calling feebly
for help, was hurried towards the horses,

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOJLPHO.

If t

while the ruffians disputed on which to
place her, the one designed for her not
being ready. At this moment a cluster
of lights issued from the great- gates, and
die immediately heard the shrill voice of
Annette above those of several other per-
sons, who advanced. In the same moment,
she distinguished Montoni and Cavigni,
followed by a number of ruffian-faced fel-
lows, to whom she no longer looked with
terror but with hope ; for at this instant
she did not tremble at the thought of any
dangers that might await her within the
castle, whence so lately, and so anxiously,
she had wished to escape. Those which
threatened her from without, had engrossed
all her apprehensions.

A short contest ensued between the
parties, in which that of Montoni, however,
were presently victors, and the horsemen,
perceiving that numbers were against them,
and being, perhaps, not very warmly in-
terested in the affair they had undertaken,
galloped off, whHe Barnardine had run
far enough to be lost in the darkness, and
Emily was led back into the castle. As
she re-passed the courts, the remembrance
of what she had seen in the portal-chamber
came with all its horror, to her mind ;
and when, soon after, she heard the gate
close, that shut her once more within the
castle walls, she shuddered for herself, and,
almost forgetting the danger she had es-
caped, could scarcely think, that any thing
less precious than liberty and peace was to
be found beyond them.

Montoni ordered Emily to await him in
the cedar parlour, whither he soon followed,
and then sternly questioned her on this
mysterious affair. Though she now viewed
him with horror, as the murderer of her
aunt, and scarcely knew what she said in
reply to his impatient enquiries, her
answers and her manner convinced him, that
she had not taken a voluntary part in the
late scheme, and he dismissed her upon
the appearance of his servants, whom he
had ordered to attend, that he might en-
quire further into the affair, and discover
those who had been accomplices in it.

Emily had been some time in her apart-
ment, before the tumult of her mind al-
lowed her to remember several of the past
circumstances. Then, again, the dead form,
which the curtain in the portal-chamber
had disclosed, came to her fancy, and she
uttered a groan, which terrified Annette
the more, as Emily forbore to satisfy her
curiosity on the subject of it, for she feared
to trust her with so fdftal a secret, lest her
indiscretion should call down the immediate
vengeance of Montoni on herself.

Thus compelled to bear within her own
mind the whole horror of the secret that op-
messed it, her reason seemed to totter under

the intolerable weight. She often fixed a
wild and vacant look on Annette, and,
when she spoke, either did not hear her, or
answered from the purpose. Long fits of
abstraction succeeded; Annette spoke re-
peatedly, but her voice seemed not to make
any impression on the sense of the long-
agitated Emily, who sat fixed and silent,
except that, now and then, she heaved a
heavy sigh, but without tears.

Terrified at her condition, Annette, at
length, left the room, to inform Montoni
of it, who had just dismissed his servants,
without having made any discoveries on
the subject of his enquiry. The wild descrip-
tion which this girl now gave of Emily, in-
duced him to follow her immediately to the
chamber.

At the sound of his voice, Emily turned
her eyes, and a gleam of recollection
seemed to shoot athwart her mind, for she
immediately rose from her seat, and moved
slowly to a remote part of the room. He
spoke to her in accents somewhat softened
from their usual harshness, but she regarded
him with a kind of half curious half ter-
rified look, and answered only " Yes1* to
whatever he said. Her mind still seemed
to retain no other impression, than that ot
fear.

Of this disorder Annette could give no
explanation, and Montoni, having attempted
for some time, to persuade Emily to talk,
retired, after ordering Annette to remain
with her during the night, and to inform
him, in the morning, of her condition.

When he was gone, Emily again came
forward, and asked who it was that had
been there to disturb her. Annette said it
was the signor — Signor Montoni. Emily
repeated the name after her several times,
as if she did not recollect it, and then sud.
denly groaned and relapsed into abstrac-
tion.

With some difficulty, Annette led her to
the bed, which Emily examined with an
eager, phrensied eye, before she lay down,
and then pointing, turned with shuddering
emotion to Annette, who, now more terri-
fied, went towards the door, that she might
bring one of the female servants to pass
the night with them j but Emily, observing
her going, called her by name, and then,
in the naturally soft and plaintive tone of
her voice, begged that she too would not for-
sake her.— -"For since my father died,"
added she, sighing, "every body forsakes
me."

" Your father, ma'amselle !" said An
nette, " he was dead before you knew me."

" He was indeed !" rejoined Emily, and
her tears began to flow. She now wept
silently and long, after which, becoming
quite calm, she at length sunk to sleep,
Annette having had discretion enough not

i?a

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

to interrupt her tears. This girl, as affec-
tionate as she was simple, lost in these
moments all her former fears of remaining
in the chamber, and watched alone by
Emily, during the whole night.

CHAP. XXVI.

" unfold

What worlds, or what vast regions, hold
Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook

Her mansion in this fleshy nook !"

IL PENSEROSO.

Emily's mind was refreshed by sleep.
On waking in the morning, she looked with
surprise on Annette, who sat sleeping in a
chair beside the bed, and then endeavoured
to recollect herself; but the circumstances
of the preceding night were swept from her
memory, which seemed to retain no trace of
what had passed, and she was still gazing
with surprise on Annette, when the latter
awoke.

•• O dear ma'amselle ! do you know me?"
cried she.

" Know you ! Certainly," replied Emily,
" you are Annette : but why are you sitting
by me thus ?"

" O you have been very ill, ma'amselle, —
very ill indeed ! and I am sure 1 thought—"
" This is very strange!" said Emily, still
trying to recollect the past. — " But I think
I do remember, that my fancy has been
haunted by frightful dreams. Good God !"
she added, suddenly starting," surely it was
nothing more than a dream !"

She fixed a terrified look upon Annette,
who, intending to quiet her, said, "Yes,
ma'amselle, it was more than a dream, but it
is all over now."

« She is murdered, then !" said Emily in
an inward voice, and shuddering instantane-
ously. Annette screamed ; for, being ig-
norant of the circumstance to which Emily
referred, she attributed her manner to a dis-
ordered fancy, but, when she had explained
to what her own speech alluded, Emily, re-
collecting the attempt that had been made
to carry her off, asked if the contriver of it
had been discovered. Annette replied that
he had not, though he might easily be
guessed at •, and then told Emily that she
might thank her for her deliverance, who,
endeavouring to command the emotion,
which the remembrance of her aunt had
occasioned, appeared calmly to listen to
Annette, though, in truth, she heard scarcely
a word that was said.

"And so, ma'amselle," continued the lat-
ter, " I was determined to be even with
Barnardine for refusing to tell me the secret,
by finding it out myself-, so I watched you
on the terrace, and, as soon as he had open-
ed the door at the end, I stole out from the
castle, to try to follow you ; for, says I, I am
wire no good can be planned, or why all this

secrecy ? So, sure enough, he had m4
bolted the door after him, and, when 1
opened it, I saw, by the glimmer of the
torch, at the other end of the passage, which
way you were going. I followed the light
at a distance, till you came to the vaults of
the chapel, and there I was afraid to go fur-
ther, for I had heard strange things a* nit
these vaults. But then, again, I was afraid
to go back, all in darkness, by myself; so by
the time Barnardine had trimmed the light,
I had resolved to follow you, and I did so,
till you came to the great court, and there
I was afraid he would see me ; so I stopped
at the door again, and watched you across
to the gates, and, when you was gone up
the stairs, I whipt after. There, as I stood
under the gate-way, I heard horses' feet
without, and several men talking; and I
heard them swearing at Barnardine for not
bringing you out, and just then he had like to
have caught me, for he came down the stairs
again, and I had hardly time to get out of
his way. But I had heard enough of his
secret now, and I determined to be even
with him, and to save you, too, ma'amselle,
for I guessed it to be some new scheme of
Count Morano, though he was gone away. I
ran into the castle, but I had hard work to
find my way through the passage under the
chapel ; and what is very strange, I quite
forgot to look for the ghosts they had told
me about, though I would not go into that
place again by myself for all the world !
Luckily the signor and signor Cavigni were
up, so we had soon a train at our heels, suf-
ficient to frighten that Barnardine and his
rogues, all together."

Annette ceased to speak, but Emily still
appeared to listen. At length she said sud-
denly, " 1 think I will go to him myself; —
where is he ?"

Annette asked who was meant.
" Signor M ontoni," replied Emily. " I
would speak with him ;" and Annette, now
remembering the order he had given, on the
preceding night, respecting her young lady,
rose, and said she would seek him herself.

This honest girl's suspicions of Count
Morano were perfectly just ; Emily, too,
when she thought on the scheme, had attri-
buted it to him ; and Montoni, who had not
a doubt on this subject also, began to be-
lieve that it was by the direction of Morano
that poison had formerly been mingled with
his wine. ;

The professions of repentance which Mo-
rano had made to Emily, under the anguish
of his wound^ were sincere at the moment
he offered them : but he had mistaken the
subject of his sorrow ; for while he thought
he was condemning the cruelty of his late
design, he was lamenting only the state of
suffering to which it had reduced him. As
these sufferings abated, his former views re-

THE YSTEKIES OF UDOLPIIO.

17.1

rived, till, his health being re-established,
he again found himself ready tor enterprise
and difficulty. The porter of the castle,
who had served him on a former occasion,
willingly accepted a second bribe ; and,
having concerted the means of drawing
Emily to the gates, Morano publicly left
the i: imlet, whither he had been carried
after the affray, and withdrew with his peo-
ple to another at several miles distance.
From thence, on a night agreed upon by
Barnardine, who had discovered, from the
thoughtless prattle of Annette, the most
probable means of decoying Emily, the count
sent back his servants to the castle, while he
awaited her arrival at the hamlet, with an
intention of carrying her immediately to
Venice. How this, his second scheme, was
frustrated, has already appeared; but the
violent and various passions with which this
Italian lover was now agitated, on his re-
turn to that city, can only be imagined.

Annette having made her report to Mon-
toni of Emily's health and of her request to
see him, he replied, that she might attend
him in the cedar-room, in about an hour.
It was on the subject that pressed so heavily
on her mind, thai Emily wished to speak
to him, yet she did not distinctly know
what good purpose this could answer, and
sometimes she even recoiled in horror from
the expectation of his presence. She wished,
also, to petition, though she scarcely dared
to believe the request would be granted,
that he would permit her, since her aunt was
no more, to return to her native country.

As the moment of interview approached,
her agitation increased so much, that she al-
most resolved to excuse herself under what
could scarcely be called a pretence of ill-
ness 5 and, when she considered what could
be said, either concerning herself, or the
fate of her aunt, she was equally hopeless as
to the event of her entreaty, and terrified as
to its effect up6n the vengeful spirit of
Montoni, Yet, to pretend ignorance of her
death, appeared, in some degree, to be shar-
ing its criminality ; and, indeed, this event
was the only ground on which Emily could
rest her petition for leaving Udolpho.

While her thoughts thus wavered, a mes-
sage was brought, importing, that Montoni
could not see her till the next day ; and her
spirits were then relieved for a moment,
from an almost intolerable weight of appre-
hension, Annette said, she fancied the che-
valiers were going out to the wars again, for
the court-yard was tilled with horses, and
she heard, that the rest of the party who
went out before were expected at the castle.
" And I heard one of the soldiers, too,'*
added she, " say to his comrade, that he
would warrant they would bring home a
rare deal of booty. — So thinks I, if the sig-
oor can, with a sstfc conscience, send his peo-

ple out a robbing— why it is no business of
mine. I only wish I was once safe out of
this castle ; and, if it had not been for poor
Ludovico's sake, I would have let Count
Morano's people run away with us both, for
it would have been serving you a good turn,
ma'amselle, as well as myself."

Annette might have continued thus talk-
ing for hours for any interruption she would
have received from Emily, who was silent,
inattentive, absorbed in thought, and passed
the whole of this day in a kind of solemn
tranquillity, such as is often the result of
faculties overstrained by suffering.

When night returned, Emily recollected the
mysterious strains of music, that she had
lately heard, in which she still felt some degree
of interest, and of which she hoped to hear
again the soothing sweetness. The influence
of superstition now gained on the weakness of
her long-harassed mind ; she looked with
enthusiastic expectation to the guardian spirit
of her father, and, having dismissed Annette
for the night, determined to watch alone for
their return. It was not yet, however, near
the time when she had heard the music on a
former night,, and anxious to call off her
thoughts from distressing subjects, she sat
down with one of the few books that she
had brought from France ; but her mind, re-
fusing controul, became restless and agita-
ted, and she went often to the casement to
listen for a sound. Once she thought she
heard a voice, but then, every thing without
the casement remaining still, she concluded
that her fancy had deceived her.

Thus passed the time till twelve o'clock,
soon after which the distant sounds, that
murmured through the castle, ceased, and
sleep seemed to reign over all. Emily then
seated herself at the casement, where she was
soon recalled from the reverie, into which
she sunk, by very unusual sounds, not of
music, but like the low mourning of some
person in distress. As she listened, her
heart faultered in terror, and she became
convinced that the former sound was more
than imaginary. Still, at intervals, she heard
a kind of feeble lamentation, and sought to
discover whence it came. There were seve-
ral rooms underneath, adjoining the ram-
part, which had been long shut up, and, as
the sound probably rose from one of these,
she leaned from the casement to obsei*ve,
whether any light was visible there. The
chambers, as far as she could perceive,
were quite dark, but, at a little distance, on
the rampart below, she thought she saw
something moving.

The faint twilight, which the stars shed,
did not enable her to distinguish what it was ;
but she judged it to be a sentinel on watch,
and she removed her light to a remote part
of the chamber, that she might escape no-
tice, during her further observation.

174

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

The same object still appeared. Pre-
sently, it advanced along the rampart, to-
wards her window, and she then distinguish,
ed something like a human form ; but the
silence with which it moved, convinced her
it was no sentinel. As it drew near, she he-
sitated whether to retire ; a thrilling curio-
sity inclined her to stay, but a dread of she
scarcely knew what warned her to with-
draw.

While she paused, the figure came oppo-
site to her casement, and was stationary.
Every thing remained qnietj she had not
heard even a foot-fall ; and the solemnity of
this silence, with the mysterious form she
saw, subdued her spirits, so that she was
moving from the casement, when, on a sud-
den, she observed the figure start away, and
glide down the rampart, after which it was
soon lost in the obscurity of night. Emily
continued to gaze, for some time, on the
way it had passed, and then retired within
her chamber, musing on this strange circum-
stance, and scarcely doubting that she had
witnessed a supernatural appearance.

When her spirits recovered composure,
she looked round for some other explanation.
Remembering what she had heard of the
daring enterprises of Montoni, it occurred to
her that she had just seen some unhappy
person, who, having been plundered by his
bauditti, was brought hither a captive, and
that the music she had formerly heard came
from him. Yet, if they had plundered him,
it still appeared improbable that they should
have brought him to the castle ; and it was
also more consistent with the manners of
banditti to murder those they rob, than to
make them prisoners : but what, more than
any other circumstance, contradicted the
supposition that it was a prisoner, was, that
it wandered on the terrace without a guard ;
a consideration which made her dismiss im-
mediately her first surmise.

Afterwards, she was inclined to believe
that Count Morano had obtained admittance
into the castle ; but she soon recollected the
difficulties and dangers that must have op-
posed such an enterprise, and that, if he
had so far succeeded, to come alone and in
silence to her casement at midnight, was not
the conduct he would have adopted, parti-
cularly since the private staircase, commu-
nicating with her apartment, was known to
him ; neither would he have uttered the
dismal sounds she had heard.

Another suggestion represented, that this
might be some person who had designs upon
the castle •, but the mournful sounds de-
stroyed also that probability. Thus enquiry
only perplexed her. Who or what it could
be that haunted this lonely hour, complain-
ing in such doleful accents and in such sweet
music, (for she was still inclined to believe,
that the former strains and the late appear-

ance were connected,) she had no means of
ascertaining ; and imagination again assumed
her empire, and roused the mysteries ot
superstition.

She determined, however, to watch on the
following night, when her doubts might,
perhaps, be cleared up ; and she almost re-
solved to address the figure, if it should
appear again.

CHAP. XXVIII.

" Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp,
Oft' seen in charnel-vaults and sepulchres,
Ling' ring, and sitting, by a new-made grave."

MILTON.

On the following day, Montoni sent a
second excuse to Emily, who was surprised
at the circumstance. " This is very strange !"
said she to herself. " His conscience tells
him the purport of my visit, and he defers
it, to avoid an explanation." She now al-
most resolved to throw herself in his way,
but terror checked the intention j and this
day passed as the preceding one with Emily,
except that a degree of awful expectation
concerning the approaching night, now some-
what disturbed the dreadful calmness that
had pervaded her mind.

Towards evening, the second part of the
band, which had made the first excursion
among the mountains, returned to the cas-
tle, where, as they entered the courts, Emily,
in her remote chamber, heard their loud
shouts and strains of exultation, like the
orgies of furies over some horrid sacrifice.
She even feared they were about to commit
some barbarous deed ; a conjecture from
which, however, Annette soon relieved her,
by telling that the people were only exult-
ing over the plunder they had brought with
them. This circumstance still further con-
firmed her in the belief, that Montoni had
really commenced to be a captain of ban-
ditti, and meant to retrieve his broken for-
tunes by the plunder of travellers. Indeed,
when she considered all the circumstances
of his situation—in an armed and almost in-
accessible castle, retired far among the re-
cesses of wild and solitary mountains, along
whose distant skirts were scattered towns
and cities, whither wealthy travellers were
continually passing, — this appeared to he
the situation of all others most suited for the
success of schemes of rapine ; and she yield-
ed to the strange thought that Montoni was
become a captain of robbers. His character
also, unprincipled, dauntless, cruel, and en-
terprising, seemed to fit him for the situa-
tion. Delighting in the tumult and in tl
struggles of life, he was equally a strangei
to pity and to fear : his very courage was
sort of animal ferocity ; not the noble im-
pulse of a principle, such as inspirits thi
mind against the oppressor in the cause

TUB MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

17S

the oppressed, but a constitutional hardiness
of nerve that cannot feel, and that, there-
fore, cannot fear.

Emily's supposition, however natural, was
in part erroneous ; for she was a stranger to
the state of this country, and to the circum-
stances under which its frequent wars were
partly conducted. The revenues of the
many states of Italy being, at that time, in-
sufficient to the support of standing armies,
even during the short periods which the tur-
bulent habits both of the governments and
the people permitted to pass in peace, an
order of men arose not known in our age,
and but faintly described in the history of
their own. Of the soldiers disbanded at the
end of every war, few returned to the safe,
but unprofitable, occupations then usual in
peace. Sometimes they passed into other
countries, and mingled with armies, which
still kept the field ; sometimes they formed
themselves into bands of robbers, and occu-
pied remote fortresses, where their desperate
character, the weakness of the governments
which they offended, and the certainty that
they could be recalled to the armies, when
their presence should be again wanted, pre-
vented them from being much pursued by
the civil power; and sometimes they at-
tached themselves to the fortunes of a po-
pular chief, by whom they were led into the
service of any state, which could settle with
him the price of their valour. From this
latter practice arose their name — Condot-
tieri; a term formidable all over Italy for a
period, which concluded in the earlier part
of the seventeenth century, but of which it
is not so easy to ascertain the commence-
ment.

Contests between the smaller states were
then, for the most part, affairs of enterprise
alone ; and the probabilities of success were
estimated, not from the skill, but from the
personal courage of the general and the sol-
diers. The ability which was necessary to
the conduct of tedious operations was little
valued. It was enough to know how a party
might be led towards their enemies with the
greatest secrecy, or conducted from them in
the compactest order. The officer was to
precipitate himself into a situation, where,
but for his example, the soldiers might not
have ventured ; and as the opposed parties
knew little of each other's strength, the
event of the day was frequently determined
by the boldness of the first movements. In
such services the Condottieri were eminent ;
and in these, where plunder always followed
success, their character** acquired a mixture
of intrepidity and profligacy, which awed
even those whom they served.

When they were not thus engaged, their
chief had usually his own fortress, in which,
or in its neighbourhood, they enjoyed an
trksome rest ; and, though their wants were,

at one time, partly supplied from the pro*
perty of the inhabitants, the lavish distribu-
tion of their plunder at others prevented
them from being obnoxious ; and the pea-
sants of such districts gradually shared the
character of their warlike visitors. The
neighbouring governments sometimes pro-
fessed, but seldom endeavoured, to suppress
these military communities ; both because
it was difficult to do so, and because a dis-
guised protection of them ensured, for the
service of their wars, a body of men, who
could not otherwise be so cheaply main-
tained, or so perfectly qualified. The com-
manders sometimes even relied so far upon
this policy of the several powers, as to fre-
quent their capitals ; and Montoni, having
met them in the gaming parties of Venice
and Padua, conceived a desire to emulate
their characters, before his ruined fortunes
tempted him to adopt their practices. It
was for the arrangement of his present plan
of life that the midnight councils were held
at his mansion in Venice, and at which Or-
sino, and some other members of the present
community, then assisted with suggestions,
which they had since executed with the
wreck of their fortunes.

On the return of night, Emily resumed
her station at the casement. There was
now a moon ; and, as it rose over the tufted
woods, its yellow light served to shew the
lonely terrace and the surrounding objects,
more distinctly than the twilight of the stars
had done, and promised Emily to assist her
observations, should the mysterious form
return. On this subject she again wavered
in conjecture, and hesitated whether to speak
to the figure, to which a strong and almost
irresistible interest urged her, but terror, at
intervals, made her reluctant to do so.

" If this is a person who has designs upon
the castle," said she, " my curiosity may
prove fatal tome; yet the mysterious music
and the lamentations I heard must surely
have proceeded from him ; if so, he cannot
be an enemy."

She then thought of her unfortunate aunt ;
and, shuddering with grief and horror, the
suggestions of imagination seized her mind
with all the force of truth, and she believed
that the form she had seen was supernatural.
She trembled, breathed with difficulty, an
icy coldness touched her cheeks, and her
fears for a while overcame her judgment. —
Her resolution now forsook her, and she de-
termined, if the figure should appear, not
to speak to it.

Thus the time passed, as she sat at her
casement, awed by expectation, and by
the gloom and stillness of midnight; for
she saw obscurely in the moonlight only
the mountains and woods, a cluster of
towers, that formed the west angle of the
castle, and the terrace below 5 and heard

176

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

no sound except now and then the lonely
watch-word, passed by the sentinels on
duty, and afterwards the steps of the men
who came to relieve guard, and whom she
knew at a distance on the rampart by
their pikes that glittered in the moon-
beam, and then, by the few short words, in
which they hailed their fellows of the night.
Emily retired within her chamber, while
they passed the casement. When she re-
turned to it, all was again quiet. It was
now very late, she was wearied with watch-
ing, and began to doubt the reality of what
she had seen on the preceding night ; but
she still lingered at the window, for her mind
was too perturbed to admit of sleep. The
moon shone with a clear lustre, that afford-
ed her a complete view of the terrace; but
she saw only a solitary sentinel, pacing at
one end of it; and, at length, tired with
expectation, she withdrew to seek rest.

Such, however, was the impression, left
on her mind, by the music, and the com-
plaining she had formerly heard, as well as
by the figure, which she fancied she had
seen, that she determined to repeat the
watch, on the following night.

Montoni, on the next day, took no notice
of Emily's appointed visit, but she, more
anxious than before to see him, sent An-
nette to enquire at what hour he would
admit her. He mentioned eleven o'clock,
and Emily was punctual to the moment ;
at which she called up all her fortitude to
support the shock of his presence, and the
dreadful recollections it enforced. He was
with several of his officers, in the cedar-
-oom; on observing whom she paused;
and her agitation .increased, while he con-
tinued to converse with them, apparently
not observing her, till some of his officers,
turning round, saw Emily, and uttered an
exclamation. She was hastily retiring when
Montoni's voice arrested her, and, in a
faltering accent, she said,-~" I would speak
with you, Signor Montoni, if you are at
leisure."

"These are my friends," he replied;
whatever you would say they may hear."

Emily, without replying, turned from the
rude gaze of the chevaliers, and Montoni
then followed her to the hall, whence he
led her to a small room, of which he shut
the door with violence. As she looked on
his dark countenance, she again thought
she saw the murderer of her aunt ; and her
mind was so convulsed with horror, that she
had not power to recal thought enough to
explain the purport of her visit; and to
trust herself with the mention of Madame
Montoni was more than she dared.

Moptom & length impatiently enquired
what she had to say. " I have no time for
trifling," he added, " my moments are im-
uorlant."

Emily then told him, that al»« wished to
return to France, and came to beg, that lie
would permit her to do so. — But when he
looked surprised, and enquired for the
motive of her request, she hesitated, bt>
came paler than before, trembled, and had
nearly sunk at his feet. He observed her
emotion with apparent indifference, and
interrupted the silence, by telling her he
must be gone. Emily, however, recalled
her spirits sufficiently to enable her to re-
peat her request. And, when Montoni
absolutely refused it, her slumbering mind
was roused.

" I can no longer remain here with
propriety, sir," said she, " and I may be
allowed to ask, by what right you detain
me."

"It is my will that you remain here,"
said Montoni, laying his hand on the door
to go ; " let that suffice you."

Emily, considering that she had no ap-
peal from his will, forbore to dispute his
right, and made a feeble effort to persuade
him to be just. " While my aunt lived,
sir," said she, in a tremulous voice, " my
residence here was not improper ; but now
that she is no more, I may surely be per
mitted to depart. My stay cannot benefit
you, sir, and will only distress me."

"Who told you that Madame Mon ton,
was dead?" said Montoni, with an inqui.
sitive eye. Emily hesitated, for nobod)
had told her so, and she did not dare to
avow the having seen that spectacle in the
portal-chamber, which had compelled her
to the belief.

" Who told you so ?" he repeated, more
sternly.

" Alas ! I know it too well," replied
Emily: spare me on this terrible subject !"

She sat down on a bench to support
herself.

" If you wish to see her," said Montoni,
" you may ; she lies in the east turret."

He now left the room, without awaiting
her reply, returned to the cedar-chamber,
where such of the chevaliers as" had not be-
fore seen Emily, began to rally him on the
discovery they had made ; but Montoni
did not appear disposed to bear this mirth,
and they changed the subject.

Having talked with the subtle Orsino,
on the plan of an excursion, which he
meditated for a future day, his friend ad-
vised that they should lie in wait for the
enemy, which Verezzi impetuously op-
posed, reproached Orsino with want of
spirit, and swore, that, if Montoni would
let him lead on fifty men, he w ould conquer
all that should oppose him.

Orsino smiled contemptuously ; Montoni
smiled too, but he also listened. Verezzi
then proceeded with vehement declamation
and assertion, till he was stopped by au

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

\19

argument of Orsino, which he knew not
how to answer better than by invective.—
His fierce spirit detested the cunning cau-
tion of Orsino, whom he constantly opposed,
and whose inveterate, though silent, hatred
he had long ago incurred ; and Montoni
was a calm observer of both, whose different
qualifications he knew, and how to bend
their opposite character to the perfection of
his own designs. But Verezzi, in the heat
of opposition, now did not scruple to accuse
Orsino of cowardice ; at which the counte-
nance of the latter, while he made no reply,
was overspread with a livid paleness ; and
Montoni, who watched his lurking eye, saw
him put his hand hastily into his bosom. —
But Verezzi, whose face, glowing with crim-
son, formed a striking contrast to the com-
plexion of Orsino, remarked not the action,
and continued boldly declaiming against
cowards to Cavigni, who was slily laughing
at his vehemence, and at the silent mortifi-
cation of Orsino 5 when the latter, retiring
a few steps behind, drew forth a stiletto to
stab his adversary in the back. Montoni
arrested his half-extended arm, and, with a
significant look, made him return the poi-
nard into his bosom, unseen by all except
himself 5 for most of the party were dis-
puting at a distant window, on the situation
of a dell where they meant to form an am-
buscade.

When Verezzi had turned round, the
deadly hatred expressed on the features of
his opponent raising, for the first time, a
suspicion of his intention, he laid his hand
on his sword, and then, seeming to recollect
himself, strode up to Montoni.

" Signor," said he, with a significant look
at Orsino, " we are not a band of assassins ;
if you have business for brave men, employ
me on this expedition — you shall have the
last drop of my blood ; if you have only
work for cowards — keep him," pointing to
Orsino, " and let me quit Udolpho."

Orsino, still more incensed, again drew
forth his stiletto, and rushed towards Ve-
rezzi, who, at the same instant, advanced
with his sword ; when Montoni and the rest
of the party interfered, and separated them .
" This is the conduct of a boy," said Mon-
toni to Verezzi, " not of a man : be more
moderate in your speech."

" Moderation is the virtue of cowards,"
retorted Verezzi . a they are moderate in
every thing — but in fear."

" I accept your words,*' said Montoni,
turning upon him with a fierce and haughty
look, and drawing his sword out of the
scabbard.

u With all my heart," cried Verezzi,
11 though I did not mean them for you."

Be directed a pass at Montoni; and,
while they fought, the villain Orsino made
K

another attempt to stab Verezzi, and w*»
again prevented.

The combatants were, at length, sepa
rated, and, after a very long and violent
dispute, reconciled. Montoni then left the
room with Orsino, whom he detained in pri
vate consultation for a considerable time.

Emily, meanwhile, stunned by the last
words of Montoni, forgot, for the moment,
his declaration, that she should continue in
the castle, while she thought of her unfor-
tunate aunt, who, he had said, was laid in
the east turret. In suffering the remains of
his wife to lie thus long unburied, there ap-
peared a degree of brutality more shocking
than she had suspected even Montoni could
practise.

After a long struggle, she determined to
accept his permission to visit the turret, and
to take a last look of her ill-fated aunt;
with which design she returned to her cham-
ber, and, while she waited for Annette to
accompany her, endeavoured to acquire
fortitude sufficient to support her through
the approaching scene; for, though she
trembled to encounter it, she knew that to
remember the performance of this last act
of duty, would hereafter afford her conso-
ling satisfaction.

Annette came, and Emily mentioned her
purpose, from which the former endeavoured
to dissuade her, though without effect ; and
Annette was, with much difficulty, prevailed
upon to accompany her to the turret ; but
no consideration could make her promise to
enter the chamber of death.

They now left the corridor; and, having
reached the foot of the staircase, which
Emily had formerly ascended, Annette de-
clared she would go no further, and Emily
proceeded alone. When she saw the track
of blood which she had before observed, hei
spirits fainted; and, being compelled to rest
on the stairs, she almost determined to pro-
ceed no further. The pause of a few mo
ments restored her resolution, and she went
on.

As she drew near the landing-place, upon
which the upper chamber opened, she re
membered that the door was formerly fa6t
ened, and apprehended that it might still
be so. In this expectation, however, she
was mistaken ; for the door opened at once
into a dusky and silent chamber, round
which she fearfully looked, and then slowly
advanced, when a hollow voice spoke.—
Emily, who was unable to speak, or to move
from the spot, uttered no sound of terror.
The voice spoke again ; and then, thinking
that it resembled that of Madame Montoni,
Emily's spirits were instantly roused : she
rushed towards a bed that stood in a remote
part of the room, and drew aside the cur-
tains. Within appeared a pale and ems-

17b

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

dated fece. She started back, then again
advanced ; shuddered as she took up the
skeleton hand that lay stretched upon the
quilt, then let it drop, and then viewed the
face with a long unsettled gaze. It was that
»f Madame Montoni, though so changed by
illness, that the resemblance of what it had
been could scarcely be traced in what it
now appeared. She was still alive 5 and,
raising her heavy eyes, she turned them on
her niece.

" Where have you been so long ?" said
she, in the same hollow tone 5 " 1 thought
you had forsaken me."

" Do you indeed live ?" said Emily, at
length, " or is this but a terrible appari-
tion ?" She received no answer, and again
she snatched up the hand. " This is sub-
stance," she exclaimed, " but it is cold —
cold as marble !" She let it fall. « O, if
you really live, speak !" said Emily, in a voice
of desperation, " that I may not lose my
senses : say you know me !"

" I do live," replied Madame Montoni,
« but — I feel that I am about to die 1"

Emily clasped the hand she held more
eagerly, and groaned. They were both
silent for some moments ; then Emily en-
deavoured to soothe her, and enquired what
had reduced her to this present deplorable
state.

Montoni, when he removed her to the
turret under the improbable suspicion of
having attempted his life, had ordered the
men employed on the occasion to observe a
strict secrecy concerning her. To this he
was influenced by a double motive : he
meant to debar her from the comfort of
Emily's visits, and to secure an opportunity
of privately dispatching her, should any new
circumstances occur to confirm the present
suggestions of his suspecting mind. His
consciousness of the hatred he deserved it
was natural enough should at first lead him
to attribute to her the attempt that had
been made upon his life ; and, though there
was no other reason to believe that she was
concerned in that atrocious design, his sus-
picions remained : he continued to confine
her in the turret, under a strict guard ; and,
without pity or remorse, had suffered her
to lie, forlorn and neglected, under a raging
fever, till it had reduced her to the present
itate.

The track of blood, which Emily had seen
jfi the stairs, had flowed from the unbound
wound of one of the men employed to carry
Madame Montoni, and which he had received
in the late affray. At night, these men,
having contented themselves with securing
the door of their prisoner's room, had retired
from guard •, and then it was that Emily, at
the time of her first enquiry, had found the
turret so silent and deserted.

When she had attempted to open the door

of the chamber, her aunt was sleeping, and
this occasioned the silence, which had con-
tributed to delude her into a belief that she
was no more ; yet had her terror permitted
her to persevere longer in the call, she would
probably have awakened Madame Montoni,
and have been spared much suffering. The
spectacle in the portal-chamber, which af
terwards confirmed Emily's horrible suspi-
cion, was the corpse of a man who had fallen
in the affray, and the same which had been
borne into the servants' hall, where she took
refuge from the tumult. This man had
lingered under his wounds for some days ;
and, soon after his death, his body had been
removed, on the couch on which he died, for
interment in the vault beneath the chapel,
through which Emily and Barnardine had
passed to the chamber.

Emily, after asking Madame Montoni a
thousand questions concerning herself, left
her, and sought Montoni ; for the more so-*
lemn interest she felt for her aunt, made her
now regardless of the resentment her remon-
strances might draw upon herself, and of the
improbability of his granting what she meant
to entreat.

" Madame Montoni is now dying, s:r,"
said Emily, as soon as she saw him. " Your
resentment, surely, will not pursue her to
the last moment ! Suffer her to be removed
from that forlorn room to her own apart-
ment, and to have necessary comforts admi-
nistered."

" Of what service will that be, if she is
dying ?" said Montoni, with apparent indif-
ference.

" The service, at least, of saving you, sir,
from a few of those pangs of conscience you
must suffer, when you shall be in the same
situation," said Emily, with imprudent in-
dignation ; of which Montoni soon made
her sensible, by commanding her to quit his
presence. Then, forgetting her resentment,
and impressed only by compassion for the
piteous state of her aunt, dying without
succour, she submitted to humble herself to
Montoni, and to adopt every persuasive
means that might induce him to relent to-
wards his wife.

For a considerable time he was proof
against all she said, and all she looked 5 but
at length the divinity of pity, beaming in
Emily's eyes, seemed to touch his heart-
He turned away, ashamed of his better feel-
ings, half sullen, and half relenting; but
finally consented that his wife should be re-
moved to her own apartment, and that Emily
should attend her. Dreading equally that
this relief might arrive too late, and that
Monloni might retract his concession, Emily
scarcely staid to thank him for it ; but, as-
sisted by Annette, she quickly prepared
Madame Montoni's bed, and they carried
her a cordial, that might enable her feehlc

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOIPHO.

17V>

frame to sustain the fatigue of a remo-
val.

Madame was scarcely arrived in her own
apartment, when an order was given by her
husband that she should remain in the tur-
ret ; but Emily, thankful that she had made
such dispatch, hastened to inform him of it,
as well as that a second removal would in-
stantly prove fatal, and he suffered his wife
to continue where she was.

During this day, Emily never left Madame
Montoni, except to prepare such little nou-
rishing things as she judged necessary to
sustain her, and which Madame Montoni re-
ceived with quiet acquiescence, though she
seemed sensible that they could not save her
from approaching dissolution, and scarcely
appeared to wish for life. Emily meanwhile
watched over her with the most tender soli-
citude, no longer seeing her imperious aunt
in the poor object before her, but the sister
of her late beloved father, in a situation that
called for all her compassion and kindness.
When night came, she determined to sit up
with her aunt ; but this the latter positively
forbade, commanding her to retire to rest,
and Annette alone to remain in her chamber.
Rest was, indeed, necessary to Emily, whose
spirits and frame were equally wearied by
the occurrences and exertions of the day ;
but she would not leave Madame Montoni
till after the turn of midnight, a period then
thought so critical by the physicians.

Soon after twelve, having enjoined An-
nette to be wakeful, and to call her, should
any change appear for the worse, Emily sor-
rowfully bade Madame Montoni good night,
and withdrew to her chamber. Her spirits
were more than usually depressed by the
piteous condition of her aunt, whose reco-
very she scarcely dared to expect. To her
own misfortunes she saw no period, inclosed
as she was in a remote castle, beyond the
reach of any friends, had she possessed such,
and beyond the pity even of strangers ; while
she knew herself to be in the power of a man
capable of any action which his interest, or
his ambition, might suggest.

Occupied by melancholy reflections and
by anticipations as sad, she did not retire
immediately to rest, but leaned thoughtfully
on her open casement. The scene before
her of woods and mountains, reposing in the
moon-light, formed a regretted contrast with
the state of her mind ; but the lonely murmur
of these woods, and the view of this sleeping
landscape, gradually soothed her emotions,
and softened her to tears.

She continued to weep for some time, lost
to every thing but to a gentle sense of her
misfortunes. When she, at length, took the
handkerchief from her eyes, she perceived
before her, on the terrace below, the figure
she had formerly observed, which stood fixed
and silent, immediately opposite to her case-

ment. Od perceiving it, she started back,
and terror for some time overcame curiosity
At length she returned to the casement, and
still the figure was before it, which she now
compelled herself to observe, but was ut-
terly unable to speak, as she had formerly
intended. The moon shone with a clear
light, and it was, perhaps, the agitation of
her mind that prevented her distinguishing,
with any degree of accuracy, the form be-
fore her. It was still stationary, and she
began to doubt whether it was really ani-
mated.

Her scattered thoughts were now so far
returned, as to remind her that her light ex-
posed her to dangerous observation; and
she was stepping back to remove it, when
she perceived the figure move, and then wave
what seemed to be its arm, as if to beckon
her; and, while she gazed, fixed in fear, it
repeated the action. She now attempted to
speak, but the words died on her lips, and
she went from the casement to remove her
light ; as she was doing which, she heard,
from without, a faint groan. Listening, but
not daring to return, she presently heard it
repeated.

" Good God ! what can this mean !" said
she.

Again she listened; but the sound came
no more ; and, after a long interval of si-
lence, she recovered courage e-nough.to go
to the casement, when she again saw the
same appearance. It beckoned again, and
f»again uttered a low sound.

"That groan was surely human," said
she. " I will speak. Who is it," cried
Emily in a faint voice, " that wanders at
this late hour ?"

The figure raised its head, but suddenly
started away, and glided down the terrace.
She watched it, for a long time, passing
swiftly in the moon-light, but heard no foot-
step, till a sentinel from the other extremity
of the rampart walked slowly along. The
man stopped under her window, and, looking
up, called her by name. She was retiring
precipitately, but a second summons indu-
cing her to reply, the soldier then respect-
fully asked if she had seen any thing pass.
On her answering that she had, he said no
more, but walked away down the terrace,
Emily following him with her eyes till he
was lost in the distance. But, as he was on
guard, she knew he could not go beyond the
rampart, and therefore resolved to await his
return.

Soon after, his voice was heard at a dis-
tance, calling loudly ; and then a voice still
more distant answered, and, in the next mo-
ment, the wjit ch- word was given, and passed
along the terrace. As the soldiers moved
hastily under the casement, she called to en-
quire what had happened, but they passtd
without regarding her.

180

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

Emily's thoughts returning to the figure
*he had seen, " It cannot be a person, who
has designs upon the castle," said she ;

such a one would conduct himself very
differently. He would not venture where
sentinels were on watch, nor fix himself op-
posite to a window, where he perceived he
must be observed; much less would he
beckon, or utter a sound of complaint. Yet
it cannot be a prisoner, for how could he ob-
tain the opportunity to wander thus ?"

If she had been subject to vanity, she
might have supposed this figure to be some
inhabitant of the castle, who wandered under
the casement in the hope of seeing her, and
of being allowed to declare his admiration ;
but this opinion never occurred to Emily,
and if it had, she would have dismissed it as
improbable, on considering, that when the
opportunity of speaking had occurred, it
had been suffered to pass in silence ; and
that, even at the moment in which she had
spoken, the form had abruptly quitted the
place.

While she mused, two sentinels walked up
the rampart in earnest conversation, of
\. hich she caught a few words, and learned
tVom these, that one of their comrades had
tailen down senseless. Soon after, three
other soldiers appeared slowly advancing
fi om the bottom of the terrace ; but she
heard only a low voice, that came at inter-
vals. As they drew near, she perceived this
to be the voice of him who walked in the
middle, apparently supported by his com-
rades ; and she again called to them, en-
quiring what had happened. At the sound
of her voice they stopped, and looked up,
while she repeated her question ; and was
told that Roberto, their fellow of the watch,
had been seized with a fit, and that his cry,
as hetfell, had caused a false alarm.

" Is he subject to fits ?" said Emily.

" Yes, signora," replied Roberto; "but if
1 had not, what I saw was enough to have
frightened the Pope himself."

" What was it ?" enquired Emily, trem-
bling.

" I cannot tell what it was, lady, or what
1 saw, or how it vanished," replied the sol-
dier, who seemed to shudder at the recollec
tion.

" Was it the person whom you followed
down the rampart that has occasioned you
this alarm?" said Emily, endeavouring to
conceal her own.

« Person !" exclaimed the man ; " it was
the devil, and this is not the first time I
have seen him !"

« Nor will it be the last," observed one of
his comrades, laughing.

** No, no, 1 warrant not," said another.

" Well," rejoined Roberto, " you may be
us merry how hs you please : you was none

so jocose the other night, Sebastian, when
you was on watch with Launcelot.'*

m Launcelot need not talk of that," re-
plied Sebastian; " let him remember how
he stood trembling, and unable to give the
word, till the man was gone. If the man
had not come so silently upon us, I would
have seized him, and soon made him tell
who he was."

" Whatman?" enquired Emily.

" It was no man, lady," said Launcelot,
who stood by, " but the devil himself, as
my comrade says. What man, who does
not live in the castle, could get within the
walls at midnight? Why, I might just as
well pretend to march to Venice, and get
among all the senators, when they are coun-
selling, and I warrant I should have more
chance of getting out again alive, than any
fellow that we should catch within the gates
after dark. So I think I have proved plainly
enough, that this can be nobody that lives
out of the castle ; and now I will prove that
it can be nobody that lives in the castle,
for, if he did, why should he be afraid to be
seen? So, after this, I hope nobody will
pretend to tell me it was any body : no, I
say again, by holy Pope ! it was the devil ;
and Sebastian there knows this is not the
first time we have seen him."

" When did you see the figure, then, be-
fore ?" said Emily, half smiling, who, though
she thought the conversation somewhat too
much, felt an interest which would not per-
mit her to conclude it.

" About a week ago, lady," said Sebastian,
taking up the story.

" And where?"

" On the rampart, lady, higher up."

" Did you pursue it, that it fled ?"

" No, signora. Launcelot and 1 were on
watch together, and every thing was so still,
' you might have heard a mouse stir ; when,
suddenly, Launcelot says — Sebastian, do
you see nothing ? I turned my head a little
to the left, as it might be — thus. No, says
I. Hush ! said Launcelot : look yonder —
just by the last cannon on the rampart. I
looked, and then thought I did see something
move ; but there being no light, but what
the stars gave, I could not be certain. We
stood quite silent to watch it, and presently
saw something pass along the castle wall,
just opposite to us."

" Why did not you seize it, then?" cried a
soldier, who had scarcely spoken till now.

a Aye, why did you not seize it ?" said
Roberto.

" You should have been there to have
done that," replied Sebastian. " You would
have been bold enough to have taken it by
the throat, though it had been the de\il
himself; we could not take such a libert/
perhaps, because we are not so well ac-

THE MYSTERIES OF UJDOLPHO.

181

qu&inted with him, as you are. But, as I
was saying, it stole by us so quickly, that
we had not time to get rid of our surprise,
before it was gone. Then, we knew it was
in vain to follow. We kept constant watch
all that night, but we saw it no more. Next
morning, we told some of our comrades, who
were on duty on other parts of the ramparts,
what we had seen ; but they had seen no-
thing, and laughed at us, and it was not till
to-night that the same figure walked
again."

" Where did you lose it, friend ?" said
Emily to Roberto.

" When I left you, lady," replied the man,
M you might see me go down the rampart,
but it was not till I reached the east terrace,
that 1 saw any thing. Then, the moon
shining bright, I saw something like a sha-
dow flitting before me, as it were, at some
distance. 1 stopped, when I turned the cor-
ner of the east tower, where I had seen this
figure not a moment before, — but it was
gone ! As I stood, looking through the old
arch which leads to the east rampart, and
where I am sure it had passed, I heard, all
of a sudden, such a sound! — It was not
like a groan, or a cry, or a shout, or any
thing I ever heard in my life. I heard it
only once, and that was enough for me ; for
1 know nothing that happened after, till 1
found my comrades, here, about me."

" Come," said Sebastian, " let us go to
our posts — the moon is setting. Good-
night, lady !"

" Aye, let us go," rejoined Roberto.
"Good-night, lady!"

" Good - night j the holy mother guard
you !" said Emily, as she closed her case-
ment and retired to reflect upon the strange
circumstance that had just occurred, con-
necting which with what had happened on
former nights, she endeavoured to derive
from the whole something more positive
than conjecture. But her imagination was
inflamed, while her judgment was not en-
lightened, and the terrors of superstition
again pervaded her mind.

CHAP. XXIX.

There is one within

Besides the things that we have heard and seen,

Recounts most horrid sights, seen by the watch."

JULltJS CiESAR.

In the morning, Emily found Madame
Montoni nearly in the same condition as on
the preceding night j she had slept little,
and that little had not refreshed her ; she
smiled on her niece, and seemed cheered by
her presence, but spoke only a few words,
and never named Montoni, who, however,
soon after entered the room. His wife,
when she understood that he was there, ap-
peared much agitated, but was entirely si-
lent, till Emily rose from a chair at the bed-

side, when she begged, in a feeble voice
that she would not leave her.

The visit of Montoni was not to soothe hig
wife, whom he knew to be dying, or to con-
sole, or to ask her forgiveness, but to make
a last effort to procure that signature, which
would transfer her estates in Languedoc,
after her death, to him l-ather than to Emily
This was a scene, that exhibited on his part,
his usual inhumanity, and, on that of Ma
dame Montoni, a persevering spirit, con
tending with a feeble frame; while Emily
repeatedly declared to him her willingness
to resign all claim to those estates, rather
than that the last hours of her aunt should
be disturbed by contention. Montoni, how
ever, did not leave the room, till his wife,
exhausted by the obstinate dispute, had
fainted, and she lay so long insensible, that
Emily began to fear that the spark of life
was extinguished. At length, she revived,
and, looking feebly up at her niece, whose
tears were falling over her, made an effort
to speak, but her words were unintelligible,
and Emily again apprehended she was dy
ing. Afterwards, however, she recovered
her speech, and, being somewhat restored
by a cordial, conversed for a considerable
time on the subject of her estates in France,
with clearness and precision. She directed
her niece where to find some papers relative
to them, which she had hitherto concealed
from the search of Montoni, and earnestly
charged her never to suffer these papers to
escape her.

Soon after this conversation, Madame
Montoni sunk into a doze, and continued
slumbering till evening, when she seemed
better than she had been since her removal
from the turret. Emily never left her, for a
moment, till long after midnight^ and even
then would not have quitted the room, had
not her aunt entreated that she would retire
to rest. She then obeyed the more willingly,
because her patient appeared somewhat re-
cruited by sleep -, and, giving Annette the
same injunction, as on the preceding night,
she withdrew to her own apartment. But
her spirits were wakeful and agitated, and,
finding it impossible to sleep, she deter-
mined to watch once more for the mysterious
appearance that had so much interested and
alarmed her.

It was now the second watch of the night,
and about the time when the figure had be-
fore appeared. Emily heard the passing
steps of the sentinels on the rampart, as
they changed guard ; and, when all was
again silent, she took her station at the
casement, leaving her lamp in a remote
part of the chamber, that she might escape
notice from without. The moon gave a faint
and uncertain light, for heavy vapours sur-
rounded it, and, often rolling" over the disk,
left the scene below in total darkness, li

\M

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

was in one of these moments of obscurity^
that she observed a small and lambent flame
moving at some distance on the terrace
While she gazed, it disappeared, and, the
moon again emerging from the lurid and
heavy thunder clouds, she turned her atten-
tion to the heavens, where the vivid light-
nings darted from cloud to cloud, and flash-
ed silently on the woods below. She loved
to catch, in the momentary gleam, the
gloomy landscape. Sometimes a cloud
opened its light upon a distant mountain,
and, while the sudden splendour illumined
all its recesses of rock and wood, the rest
of the scene remained in deep shadow ; at
others, partial features of the castle were re-
vealed by the glimpse — the ancient arch
leading to the east rampart, the turret
above, or the fortifications beyond ; and
then, perhaps, the whole edifice, with all
its towers, its dark massy walls, and point-
ed casements, would appear and vanish in
an instant.

Emily, looking again upon the rampart,
perceived the flame she had seen before ;
it moved onward; and, soon after, she
thought she heard a footstep. The light
appeared and disappeared frequently, while,
as she watched, it glided under her case-
ments, and, at the same instant, she was
certain that a footstep passed, but the dark-
ness did not permit her to distinguish any
object except the flame. It moved away,
and then, by a gleam of lightning, she per-
ceived some person on the terrace. All the
anxieties of the preceding night returned.
This person advanced, and the playing flame
alternately appeared and vanished. Emily
wished to speak, to end her doubts, whether
this figure were human or supernatural;
but her courage failed as often as she at-
tempted utterance, till the light moved
again under the casement, and she faintly
demanded, who passed.

w A friend," replied a voice

" What friend ?" said Emily, somewhat
encouraged, u who are you, and what is that
light you carry?"

" J am Anthony, one of the signor's sol-
diers," replied the voice.

" And what is that tapering light you
bear?" said Emily. "See how it darts up-
wards, — and now it vanishes !"

" This light, lady," said the soldier, " has
appeared to-night as you see it, on the point
of my lance, ever since I have been on watch;
but what it means I cannot tell."

" This is very strange !" said Emily.

" My fellow-guard," continued the man,
" has the same flame on his arms ; he says
he has sometimes seen it before. I never
did ; 1 am but lately come to the castle, for
I have not been long a soldier."

" How does your comrade account fo*
it >" said Emily.

" He says it is an omen, lady, and bo<tes
no good."

" And what harm can it bode ?" rejoined
Emily.

" He knows not so much as that, lady."
Whether Emily was alarmed by this
omen; or not, she certainly was relieved
from much terror by discovering this man
to be only a soldier on duty, and it imme-
diately occurred to her, that it*mignt be he
who had occasioned so much alarm on the
preceding night. There were, however,
some circumstances that still required ex-
planation. As far as she could judge by
the faint moon-light, that had assisted her
observations, the figure she had seen did not
resemble this man either in shape or size ;
besides, she was certain it had carried no
arms. The silence of its steps, if steps it
had, the moaning sounds, too, which it had
uttered, and its strange disappearance, were
circumstances of mysterious import, that
did not apply, with probability, to a soldier
engaged in the duty of his guard.

She now enquired of the sentinel, whether
he had seen any person besides his fellow-
watch, walking on the terrace, about mid-
night ; and then briefly related what she
had herself observed.

" I was not on guard that night, lady,"
replied the man, " but I heard of what hap
pened. There are amongst us who believe
strange things. Strange stories, too, have
long been told of this castle, but it is no bu-
siness of mine to repeat them ; and, for my
part, I have no reason to complain ; our
chief does nobly by us."

" I commend your prudence," said Emily.
u Good-night, and accept this from me,"
she added, throwing him a small piece of
coin, and then closing the casement to put
an end to the discourse.

When he was gone, she opened it again,
listened with a gloomy pleasure to the dis-
tant thunder that began to murmur among
the mountains, and watched the arrowy
lightnings, which broke over the remoter
scene. The pealing thunder rolled onward,
and Ihen, reverbed by the mountains, other
thunder seemed to answer from the oppo-
site horizon ; while the accumulating clouds,
entirely concealing the moon, assumed a red
sulphureous tinge, that foretold a violent
storm.

Emily remained at her casement, till the
vivid lightning, that now, every instant, re-
vealed the wide horizon and the landscape
below, made it no longer safe to do so, and
she went to her couch ; but, unable to com-
pose her mind to sleep, still listened in silent
awe to the tremendous sounds, that seemed
to shake the castle to its foundation.

She had continued thus for a considerable
time, when amidst the uproar of the storm
she thought e>he heard a voice, and, raising

T^E MYSTERIES OF UBOI.PHO.

herself 1.0 listen, saw the chamber door open,
and Annette enter with a countenance of
wild affright.

" She is dying, ma'anxselle 5 my lady is
dying !" said she.

Emily started up, and ran to Madame
Montoni's room. When she entered, her
aunt appeared to have fainted, for she was
quite still and insensible ; and Emily, with
a strength of mind that refused to yield to
grief while any duty required her activity,
applied every means that seemed likely to
restore her. But the last struggle was over
—she was gone for ever.

When Emily perceived that all her efforts
were ineffectual, she interrogated the terri-
fied Annette, and learned, that Madame
Montoni had fallen into a doze, soon after
Emily's departure, in which she had conti-
nued, until a few minutes before her death.

" I wondered, ma'amselle," said Annette,
*c what was the reason my lady did not
seem frightened at the thunder, when I was
so terrified, and I went often to the bed to
speak to her, but she appeared to be asleep ;
till presently 1 heard a strange noise, find,
on going to her, saw she was dying."

Emily, at this recital, shed tears. She
had no doubt but that the violent change in
the air, which the tempest produced, had
effected this fatal one on the exhausted
frame of Madame Montoni.

After some deliberation, she determined
that Montoni should not be informed of this
event till the morning, for she considered
that he might, perhaps, utter some inhuman
expressions, such as in the present temper
of her spirits she could not bear. With An-
nette alone, therefore, whom she encouraged
by her own example, she performed some of
the last solemn offices for the dead, and
compelled herself to watch during the night
by the body of her deceased aunt. During
this solemn period, rendered more awful by
the tremendous storm that shook the air,
she frequently addressed herself to heaven
for support and protection, and her pious
prayers, we may believe, were accepted of
the "God that giveth comfort.

CHAP. XXX.

" The midnight clock has toll'd ; and hark, the bell
Of death beats slow ! heard ye the note profound?
It pauses now ; and now with rising knell
Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound."

MASON.

When Montoni was informed of the death
of his wife, and considered that she had died
without giving him the signature so neces-
sary to the accomplishment of his wishes,
no sense of decency restrained the expres-
sion of his resentment. Emily anxiously
avoided his presence, and watched, during
two days and two nights, with little inter-
mission, by the corpse of her late aunt. Her

I S3

miud deeply impressed with the unhappy
fate of this object, she forgot all her faults,
her unjust and imperious conduct to herself,
and, remembering only her sufferings,
thought of her only with compassion. Some
times, however, she could not avoid musing
upon the strange infatuation that had proved
so fatal to her aunt, and had involved her
self in a labyrinth of misfortune, from which
she saw no means of escaping, — the marriage
with Montoni. But, when she considered
this circumstance, it was " more in sorrow
than in anger," more for the purpose of in-
dulging lamentation, than reproach.

In her pious cares she was not disturbed
by Montoni, who not only avoided the cham-
ber, where the remains of his wife were
laid, but that part of the castle adjoining to
it, as if he had apprehended a contagion in
death. He seemed to have given no orders
respecting the funeral, and Emily began to
fear he meant to offer a new insult to the
memory of Madame Montoni ; but from
this apprehension she was relieved, when, on
the evening of the second day, Annette in-
formed her, that the interment was to take
place that night. She knew that Montoni
would not attend ; and it was so very griev-
ous to her to think that the remains of her
unfortunate aunt would pass to the grave
without one relative, or friend, to pay them
the last decent rites, that she determined to
be deterred by no considerations for herself,
from observing this duty. She would other
wise have shrunk from the circumstance of
following them to the cold vault, to which
they were to be carried by men, whose air
and countenances seemed to stamp them for
murderers, at the midnight hour of silence
and privacy, which Montoni had chosen for
committing, if possible, to oblivion, the re-
liques of a woman, whom his harsh conduct
had, at least, contributed to destroy.

Emily, shuddering with emotions of horror
and grief, assisted by Annette, prepared the
corpse for interment •, and, having wrapped it
in cerements, and covered it with a winding-
sheet, they watched beside it till past mid-
night, when they heard the approaching
footsteps of the men, who were to lay it in
its earthy bed. It was with difficulty that
Emily overcame her emotion, when, the door
of the chamber being thrown open, their
gloomy countenances were seen by the glare
of the torch they carried, and two of them,
without speaking, lifted the body on their
shoulders, while the third preceding them
with the light, descended through the castle
towards the grave, which was in the lower
vault of the chapel within the castle walls.

They had to cross two courts, towards the
east wing of the castle, which, adjoining the
chapel, was, like it, in ruins : but the silence
and gloom of these courts had now little

184

THE MYSTERIES OF (JDOLPHO.

power over Emily's mind, occupied as it was,
with more mournful ideas ; and she scarcely
heard the low and dismal hooting of the night-
birds that roostedamong the ivyed battlements
of the ruin, or perceived the still flittings of
the bat, which frequently crossed her way.
But, when, having entered the chapel, and
passed between the mouldering pillars of
the aisles, the bearers stopped at a flight of
steps, that led down to a low arched door,
and, their comrade having descended to un-
lock it, she saw imperfectly the gloomy
abyss beyond — saw the corpse of her aunt
carried down these steps, and the ruffian-like
figure, that stood with a torch at the bottom
to receive it — all her fortitude was lost in
emotions of inexpressible grief and terror.
She turned to lean upon Annette, who was
cold and trembling like herself, and she
lingered so long on the summit of the flight,
that the gleam of the torch began to die
away on the pillars of the chapel, and the
men were almost beyond her view. Then,
the gloom around her awakening other fears,
and a sense of what she considered to be her
duty overcoming her reluctance, she de-
scended to the vaults, following the echo of
footsteps, and the faint ray that pierced the
darkness, till the harsh grating of a distant
door, that was opened to receive the corpse,
again appalled her.

After the pause of a moment, she went
on, and, as she entered the vaults, saw be-
tween the arches, at some distance, the men
lay down the body near the edge of an open
grave, where stood another of Montoni's
men, and a priest, whom she did not observe
till he began the burial service ; then lifting
her eyes from the ground, she saw the vene-
rable figure of the friar, and heard him in a
low voice, equally solemn and affecting,
perform the service for the dead. At the
moment, in which they let down the body
into the earth, the scene was such as only
.the dark pencil of a Domenichino, perhaps,
could have done justice to. The fierce fea-
tures and wild dress of the Condottieri>
bending with their torches over the grave,
into which the corpse was descending, were
contrasted by the venerable figure of the
monk, wrapt in long black garments, his
cowl thrown back from his pale face, on
which the light gleaming strongly shewed
the lines of affliction softened by piety, and
the few grey locks, which time had spared on
his temples : while, beside him, stood the
softer form of Emily, who leaned for sup-
port upon Annette ; her face half averted,
and shaded by a thin veil, that fell over her
figure j and her mild and beautiful counte-
nance fixed in grief so solemn as admitted
not of tears, while she thus saw committed
untimely to the earth her last relative and
friend. The gleams, thrown betwreen the
arches of the vaults, where, here and their,

the broken ground marked the spots m
which other bodies had been recently in-
t erred, and the general obscurity beyond,
were circumstances that alone would have
led on the imagination of a spectator to
scenes more horrible, than even that, which
was pictured at the grave of the misguided
and unfortunate Madame Montoni.

When the service was over, the friar re
garded Emily with attention and surprise,
and looked as if he wished to speak to her,
but was restrained by the presence of the
Condottieriy who, as they now led the way
to the courts, amused themselves with jokes
upon his holy order, which he endured in
silence, demanding only to be conducted
safely to his convent, and to which Emily
listened with concern and even horror.
When they reached the court, the monk
gave her his blessing, and, after a lingering
look of pity, turned away to the portal,
whither one of the men carried a torch ;
while Annette, lighting another, preceded
Emily to her apartment. The appearance
of the friar, and the expression of tender
compassion with which he had regarded
her, had interested Emily, who, though it
was at her earnest supplication that Mon-
toni had consented to allow a priest to per-
forin the last rites for his deceased wife,
knew nothing concerning this person, till
Annette now informed her, that he belonged
to a monastery, situated among the moun-
tains at a few miles distance. The superior,
who regarded Montoni and his associates,
not only with aversion, but with terror, had
probably feared to offend him by refusing
his request, and had, therefore, ordered a
monk to officiate at the funeral, who, with
the meek spirit of a Christian, had over-
come his reluctance to enter the walls of
such a castle, by the wish of performing
what he considered to be his duty, and, as
the chapel was built on consecrated ground,
had not objected to commit to it the re-
mains of the late unhappy Madame Mon-
toni,

Several days passed with Emily in total
seclusion, and in a state of mind partaking
both of terror for herself, and grief for the
departed. She, at length, determined to
make other efforts to persuade Montoni to
permit her to return to France. Why he
should wish to detain her, she could scarce-
ly dare to conjecture j but it was too
certain that he did so, and the absolute re
fusal he had formerly given to her departure
allowed her little hope that he would now
consent to it. But the horror which his
presence inspired, made her defer, from day
to day, the mention of this subject ; and
at last she was awakened from her inac-
tivity only by a message from him desiring
her attendance at a certain hour. She be-
gan to hope he meant to resign, now that

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHG.

1%

her aunt was no more, the authority he had
usurped over her ; till she recollected, that
the estates, which had occasioned so much
contention, were now her's, and she then
feared Montoni was about to employ some
stratagem for obtaining them, and that he
would detain her his prisoner, till he suc-
ceeded. This thought, instead of over-
coming her with despondency, roused all
the !atent powers of her fortitude into ac-
tion; and the property, which she would
willingly have resigned to secure the peace
of her aunt, she resolved that no common
sufferings of her own should ever compel
her to give to Montoni. For Valancourt's
sake also she determined to preserve these
estates, since they would afford that com-
petency, by which she hoped to secure the
comfort of their future lives. As she
thought of this, she indulged the tenderness
as often, aiid anticipated the delight of
that moment, when, with affectionate ge-
nerosity, she might tell him they were
his own. She saw the smile that lighted
'up his features — the affectionate regard,
which spoke at once his joy and thanks ;
and at this instant she believed she could
brave any suffering, which the evil spirit
of Montoni might be preparing for her.
Remembering then, for the first time
since her aunt's death, the papers relative
to the estates in question, she determined
to search for them, as soon as her inter-
view with Montoni was over.

With these resolutions she met him at
the appointed time, and waited to hear his
intention before she renewed her request.
With him were Oisino and another officer,
and both were standing near a table,
covered with papers, which he appeared to
be examining.

I sent for you, Emily/* said Montoni,
raising his head, "that you might be a
witness in some business, which 1 am trans-
acting with my friend Orsino. All that is
required of you will be to sign your name
to this paper :" he then took one up,
hurried unintelligibly over some lines, and,
laying it before her on the table, offered
her a pen. She took it, and was going to
write — when the design of Montoni came
upon her mind like a flash of lightning :
she trembled, let the pen fall, and refused
to sign what she had not read. Montoni
affected to laugh at her scruples, and
taking up the paper again, pretended to
read; but Emily, who still trembled on
perceiving her danger, and was astonished
that her own credulity had so nearly betray-
ed her, positively refused to sign any
paper whatever. Montoni, for some time,
persevered in affecting to ridicule this re-
fusal; but, when he perceived by her steady
perseverance, that she understood his de-
sign, he changed his manner, and bade

her follow him to another room. There he
told her, that he had been willing to spare
himself and her the trouble of useless con-
test in an affair where his will was justice,
and where she should find it law ; and had,
therefore, endeavoured to persuade, rather
than to compel, her to the practice of her
duty.

"I, as the husband of the late Signora
Montoni," he added, " am the heir of ail
she possessed ; the estates therefore, which
she refused to me in her life-time, can no
longer be withheld, and for your own sake,
I would undeceive you respecting a foolish
assertion she once made to you in my hear-
ing— that these estates would be your's, if
she died without resigning them to me.
She knew at that moment she had no
power to withhold them from me after
her decease; and I think you have more
sense, than to provoke my resentment by
advancing an unjust claim. I am not in
the habit of flattering, and you will there-
fore receive, as sincere, the praise I be-
stow, when 1 say that you possess an under-
standing superior to that of your sex ; and
that you have none of those contemptible
foibles that frequently mark the female
character — such as avarice and the love
of power, which latter makes women de-
light to contradict and to tease, when they
cannot conquer. If I understand your
disposition and your mind, you hold in
sovereign contempt these common failing &,
of your sex."

Montoni paused ; and Emily remained
silent and expecting ; for she knew him too
well, to believe he would condescend to
such flattery, unless he thought it would
promote his own interest ; and though he
had forborne to name vanity among the
foibles of women, it was evident that he
considered it to be a predominant one,
since he designed to sacrifice to her's the
character and understanding of her whole
sex.

"Judging as I do," resumed Montoni,
" T cannot believe you will oppose where
you know you cannot conquer, or indeed,
that you would wish to conquer, or be
avaricious of any property, when you have
not justice on your side. I think it proper,
however, to acquaint you with the alter-
native. If you have a just opinion of the
subject in question, you shall be allowed a
safe conveyance to France, within a short
period ; but if you are so unhappy as to be
misled by the late assertion of the signora,
you shall remain my prisoner, till you are
convinced of your error.

Emily calmly said,

" I am not so ignorant, signor, of the
laws on this subject, as to be misled by the
assertion of any person. The law, in the
present instance, gives me the estates m

1S<?

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

t question, and my own hand shall never be-
tray my right."

" I have been mistaken in my opinion
of you, it appears," rejoined Montoni,
sternly. " You speak boldly and pre-
sumptuously, upon a subject, which you
do not understand. For once, I am will-
ing to pardon the conceit of ignorance;
the weakness of your sex, too, from which,
it seems you are not exempt, claims some
allowance ; but if you persist in this strain
—you have every thing to fear from my
justice."

"From your justice, signor," rejoined
Emily, "I have nothing to fear— I have
only to hope."

Montoni looked at her with vexation,
ind seemed considering what to say. " I
find that you are weak enough," he re-
sumed, " to credit the idle assertion I al-
luded to ! For your own sake I lament
this ; as to me, it is of little consequence.
Your credulity can punish only yourself;
and I must pity the weakness of mind
which leads you to so much suffering as
you are compelling me to prepare for you."

" You may find, perhaps, signor," said
Emily, with mild dignity, "that the
strength of my mind is equal to the justice
of my cause ; and that I can endure with
fortitude, when it is in resistance of op-
pression."

" You speak like a heroine," said Mon-
toni contemptuously ; " we shall see whether
you can suffer like one."

Emily was silent, and he left the room.

Recollecting that it was for Valancourt's
sake she had thus resisted, she now smiled
complacently upon the threatened suffer-
ings, and retired to the spot which her aunt
had pointed out as the repository of the
papers relative to the estates., where she
found them as described ; and since she
knew of no better place of concealment
than this, returned them without exa-
mining their contents, being fearful of
discovery, while she should attempt a
perusal.

To her own solitary chamber she once
more returned, and there thought again of
the late conversation with Montoni, and
of the evil she might expect from opposi-
tion to his will. But his power did not ap-
pear so terrible to her imagination, as it
was wont to do : a sacred pride was in her
heart, that taught it to swell against the
pressure of injustice, and almost to glory in
the quiet sufferings of ills, in a cause
which had also the interest of Valancourt
for its object. For the first time, she felt
the full extent of her own superiority to
Montoni, and despised the authority which,
till now, she had only feared.

As she sat musing, a peal of laughter
rose from the terrace, and, on going to the

casement, she saw, with inexpressible sttr
prise, three ladies, dressed in the gala habit
of Venice, walking with several gentlemen
below. She gazed in an astonishment
that made her remain at the window, re-
gardless of being observed, till the group
passed under it ; and, one of the strangers
looking up, she perceived the features of
Signora Livona, with whose manners she
had been so much charmed, the day after
her arrival at Venice, and who had been
there introduced at the table of Montoni.
This discovery occasioned her an emotion
of doubtful joy ; for it was matter of joy
and comfort to know, that a person, of a
mind so gentle as that of Signora Livona
seemed to be, was near her ; yet there was
something so extraordinary in her being at
this castle, circumstanced as it now was,
and evidently, by the gaiety of her air,
with her own consent, that a very painful
surmise arose concerning her character.
But the thought was so shocking to Emily,
whose affection the fascinating manners
of the signora had won, and appeared so
improbable, when she remembered these
manners, that she dismissed it almost in-
stantly.

On Annette's appearance, however, she
enquired concerning these strangers; and
the former was as eager to tell, as Emily
was to learn.

"They are just come, ma'amselle," said
Annette, with two signors from Venice, and
1 was glad to see such Christian faces once
again. — But what can they mean by coming
here ? They must surely be stark mad to
come freely to such a place as this ! Yet
they do come freely, for they seem merry
enough, I am sure."

" They were taken prisoners, perhaps ?"
said Emily.

"Taken prisoners! exclaimed Annette;
" no, indeed, ma'ams elle, not they. 1 re-
member one of them very well at Venice :
she came two or three times to the signor's,
you know, ma'amselle, and it was said,
but I did not believe a word of it — it was
said that the signor liked her better than
he should do. Then why, says I, bring
her to my lady ! Very true, said Ludo-
vico ; but he looked as if he knew more too."

Emily desired Annette would endeavour
to learn who these ladies were, as well as
all she could concerning them; and she
then changed the subject, and spoke of dis-
tant Fiance.

"Ah, ma'amselle! we shall never see
it more !" said Annette, almost weeping. —
" I must come on my travels, forsooth !"

Emily tried to soothe and to cheer her,
with a hope, in which she scarcely herself
indulged.

" How — how, ma'amselle, could you leave
France, and leave Mons. Valancourt, too,

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

K1

staid Annette, sobbing — " 1 — I — am sure, if
Eudovico had been in France, I would never
have left it "

" Why do you lament quitting France,
then?'* said Emily, trying to smile, "since,
if you had remained there, you would not
have found Ludovico ?"

" Ah, ma'auibelle ! I only wish I was out
of this frightful castle, serving you in
Fiance, and I would care about nothing
else !"

" Thank you, my good Annette, for
your affectionate regard -, the time will
come, I hope, when you may remember the
expression of that wisHlpith pleasure."

Annette departed on her business, and
Emily sought to lose the sense of her own
cares, in the visionary scenes of the poet ;
but she had again to lament the irresistible
force of circumstances over the taste and
powers of the mind ; and that it requires
a spirit at ease to be sensible even to the
abstract pleasures of pure intellect. The
enthusiasm of genius, with all its pictured
scenes, now appeared cold and dim. As
she mused upon the book before her, she
involuntarily exclaimed, " Are these, in-
deed, the passages that have so often given
me exquisite delight ? Where did the
charm exist' — Was it in my mind, or in
the imagination of the poet? It lived in
each," said she, pausing. "But the fire of
the poet is vain, if the mind of his reader
is not tempered like his own, however it
may be inferior to his in power."

Emily would have pursued this train of
thinking, because it relieved her from
more painful reflection, but she found again,
that thought cannot always be controlled
by will *, and her's returned to the con-
sideration of her own situation.

In the evening, not choosing to venture
down to the ramparts where she would be
exposed to the rude gaze of Montoni's
associates, she walked for air in the gallery
adjoining her chamber ; on reaching the
further end of which she heard distant
sounds of merriment and laughter. It was
the wild uproar of riot, not the cheering
gaiety of tempered mirth ; and seemed to
come from that part of the castle where
Montoni usually was. Such sounds at this
time, when her aunt had been so few days
dead, particularly shocked her, consistent
as they were with the late conduct of
Montoni.

As she listened, she thought she distin-
guished female voices mingling with the
laughter, and this confirmed her worst
surmise concerning the character of Sig-
nora Livona and her companions. It was
evident that they had not been brought
hither by compulsion ; and she beheld her
self in the remote wilds of the Apennine,
surrounded by men, whom she considered

to be little less than ruffians, and then-
worst associates, amidst scenes of vice, from
which her soul recoiled in horror. It was at
this moment, when the scenes of the pre-
sent and the future opened to her imagina-
tion, that the image of Valancourt failed
in its influence, and her resolution shook
with dread. She thought she understood
all the horrors, which Montoni was pre-
paring for her, and shrunk from an en-
counter with such remorseless vengenance
as he could inflict. The disputed estates
she now almost determined to yield at
once, whenever he should again call upon
her, that she might regain safety and
freedom j but then the remembrance of
Valancourt would steal to her heart, and
plunge her into the distractions of doubt.

She continued walking in the gallery,
till evening threw its melancholy twilight
through the painted casements, and deep-
ened the gloom of the oak wainscoting
around her ; while the distant perspective
of the corridor was so much obscured, as to
be discernible only by the glimmering
window, that terminated it.

Along the vaulted halls and passages be-
low, peals of laughter echoed faintly, at
intervals, to this remote part of the castle,
and seemed to render the succeeding still-
ness more dreary. Emily, however, un-
willing to return to her more forlorn cham-
ber, whither Annette was not yet come,
still paced the gallery. As she passed the
door of the apartment, where she had once
dared to lift the veil which discovered to her
a spectacle so horrible, that she had never
after remembered it but with emotions
of indescribable awe, this remembrance
suddenly recurred. It now brought with it
reflections more terrible, than it had yet
done, which the late conduct of Montoni
occasioned ; and, hastening to quit the
gallery, while she had power to do so, she
heard a sudden step behind her. — It might
be that of Annette ; but turning fearfully to
look, she saw through the gloom, a tall
figure following her, and all the horrors of
that chamber rushed upon her mind. In
the next moment she found herself clasped
in the arms of some person, and heard
a deep voice murmur in her ear.

When she had power to speak, or to dis-
tinguish articulated sounds, she demanded
who detained her.

" It is I," replied the voice — " Why are
you thus alarmed ?"

She looked on the face of the person
who spoke, but the feeble light that gleamed
through the high casement at the end of the
gallery, did not permit her to distinguish the
features.

"Whoever you are," said Emily, in a
trembling voice, ** for heaven's sake let
me go! "

\8S

THE MYSTE1UES OF UIXLPHO.

** My charming Emily," said the man,
" why will you shut yourself up in this
obscure place, when there is so much gaiety
below ? Return with me to the cedar par-
lour, where you will be the fairest orna-
ment of the party ; — you shall not repent
the exchange."

Emily disdained to reply, and still en-
deavoured to liberate herself.

" Promise that you will come," he con-
tinued, "and I will release you imme-
diately ; but first give me a reward for so
doing r

" Who are you ? demanded Emily in a
tone of mingled terror and indignation,
while she struggled still for liberty-—" who
are you, that have the cruelty thus to insult
mef"

" Why call me cruel ?" said the man ; " I
would remove you from this dreary soli-
tude to a merry party b*slow. Do you not
know me ?"

Emily now faintlv remembered that he
was one of the officers who were with
Montoni when she attended him in the
morning. "1 thank you for the kindness
of your intention," she replied, without
appearing to understand him, " but I wish
for nothing so much as that you would
leave me."

" Charming Emily !" said he, * give up
this foolish whim for solitude, and come
with me to the company, and eclipse the
beauties who make part of it ; you, only,
are worthy of my love." He attempted
to kiss her hand, but the strong impulse of
her indignation gave her power to liberate
herself, and she fled towards the chamber.
She closed the door before he reached it,
having secured which, she sunk in a chair,
overcome by terror and by the exertion
she had made, virile she heard his voice,
and his attempts to open the door, without
having the power to raise herself. At
length, she perceived him depart, and
had remained, listening, for a considerable
time, and was somewhat revived by not
hearing any sound, when suddenly she re-
membered the door of the private staircase,
and that he might enter that way, since it
was fastened only on the other side. She
then employed herself in endeavouring to
secure it, in the manner she had formerly
done. It appeared to her that Montoni had
already commenced his scheme of ven-
geance, by withdrawing from her his pro-
tection, and she repented of the rashness
that had made her brave the power of such
a man. To retain the estates seemed to be
now utterly impossible j and to preserve
her life, perhaps her honour, she resolved, if
she should escape the horrors of this night,
to give up all claims to the estates, on the
morrow, provided Montoni would suffer her
to depart from Udolpho.

When she had come to iris decision, her
mind become more composed, though she
still anxiously listened, and often started at
ideal sounds, that appeared to is«iue from the
staircase.

Having sat in darkness for some hours,
dnring all which time Annette did not ap-
pear, she began to have serious apprehensions
for her ; but, not daring to venture down
into the castle, was compelled to remain in
uncertainty, as to the cause of this unusual
absence.

Emily often stole to the staircase-door to
listen if any step approached, but still no
sound alarmed her ^determining, however
to watch during the night, she once more
rested on her dark and desolate couch, aud
bathed the pillow with innocent tears. She
thought of her deceased parents, and then of
the absent Valancourt, and frequently called
upon their names ; for the profound still-
ness that now reigned, was propitious to
the musing sorrow of her mind.

While she thus remained, her ear suddenly
caught the notes of distant music, to which
she listened attentively, and, soon per-
ceiving this to be the instrument she had
formerly heard at midnight, she rose, and
stepped softly to the casement, to which the
sounds appeared to come from a lower
room.

In a few moments, their soft melody was
accompanied by a voice so full of pathos, that
it evidently sang not of imaginary sorrows.
Its sweet and peculiar tones she thought she
had somewhere heard before ; yet, if this was
not fancy, it was, at most, a very fault
recollection. It stole over her mind, amidst
the anguish of her present suffering, like a
celestial strain, soothing, and re-assuring
her : — " Pleasant as the gale of spring, thai
sighs on the hunter's ear, when he awakes
from dreams of joy, and has heard the music
of the spirits of the hill ."*

But her emotion can scarcely be imagined,
when she heard sung, with the taste and
simplicity of true feeling, one of the popular
airs of her native province, to which she had
so often listened with delight, when a child,
and which she had so often heard her father,
repeat ! to this well-known song, never, till
now, heard but in her native country, her
heart melted, while the memory of past
times returned. The pleasant, peaceful
scenes of Gascony, the tenderness and good-
ness of her parents, the taste and simplicity
of her former life— all rose to her fancy, and
formed a picture, so sweet and glowing, so
strikingly contrasted with the scenes, the
characters, and the dangers, which now sur
rounded her — that her mind could not bear
to pause upon the retrospect, and shrunk
at the acuteness of its own sufferings.

Ossian.

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

18&

Her sighs were deep and convulsed ; she
could no longer listen to the strain that had
so often charmed her to tranquillity, and
she withdrew from the casement to a remote
part of the chamber. But she was not yet
beyond the reach of the music ; she heard
the measure change, and the succeeding air
called her again to the window, for she im-
mediately recollected it to be the same she
had formerly heard in the fishing-house in
Gascony. Assisted, perhaps, by the mys-
tery which had then accompanied this strain,
it had made so deep an impression on her
memory, that she had never since entirely
forgotten it ; and the manner in which it
was now sung convinced her, however un-
accountable the circumstance appealed,
that this was the same voice she had then
heard. Surprise soon yielded to other emo-
tions : a thought darted like lightning upon
her mind, which discovered a train of hopes
that revived all her spirits. Yet these hopes
were so new, so unexpected, so astonishing,
that she did not dare to trust, though she
could not resolve to discourage them. She
sat down by the casement, breathless, and
overcome with the alternate emotions of
hope and fear ; then rose^ain, leaned from
the window, that she mijJRt catch a nearer
sound, listened, now doubting anu then be-
lieving, softly exclaimed the name of Valan-
court, and then sunk again into the chair.
Yes, it was possible that Valancourt was
near her, and she recollected circumstances
which induced her to believe it was his voice
she had j ust heard. She remembered he had
more than once said, that the fishing-house,
where she had formerly listened to this voice
and air, and where she had seen pencilled
sonnets, addressed to herself, had been his
favourite haunt, before he had been made
known to her ; there, too, she had herself
unexpectedly met him. It appeared, from
these circumstances, more than probable
that he was the musician who had formerly
charmed her attention, and the author of the
lines which had expressed such tender admi-
ration ; who else, indeed, could it be ? She
was unable, at that time, to form a conjec-
ture as to the writer; but since her ac-
quaintance with Valancourt, whene\er he
had mentioned the fishing-house to have
been known to him, she had not scrupled to
believe that he was the author of the son-
nets.

As these considerations passed over her
mind, joy, fear, and tenderness, contended at
her heart : she leaned again from the case-
ment to catch the sounds which might con-
firm or destroy her hope, though she did
not recollect to have ever heard him sing ;
but the voice and the instrument now ceased.
She considered for a moment whether she
should venture to speak ; then, not choosing,
kit it should be he, to mention his name,

and yet too much interested to neglect the
opportunity of inquiring, she railed from
the casement, a Is that song from Gascony >*•
Her anxious attention was not cheered by
any reply; every thing remained silent.— •
Her impatience increasing with her fears,
she repeated the question, but still no sound
was heard, except the sighing of the wind
among the battlements above ; and she en
deavoured to console herself with a belief
that the stranger, whoever he was, had re-
tired, before she had spoken, beyond the
reach of her voice 5 which, it appeared cer-
tain, had Valancourt heard and recognized,
he would instantly have replied to. Pre-
sently, however, she considered, that a mo-
tive of prudence, and not an accidental re-
moval, might occasion his silence ; but the
surmise that led to this reflection suddenly
changed her hope and joy to terror and
grief ; for, if Valancourt were in the castle,
it was too probable that he was here a pri-
soner, taken with some of his countrymen,
many of whom were at that time engaged in
the wars of Italy, or intercepted in some at-
tempt to reach her. Had he even rccol
lected Emily's voice, he would have feared,
in these circumstances, to reply to it in the
presence of the men who guarded his prison.

What so lately she had eagerly hoped, she
now believed she dreaded— dreaded to know
that Valancourt was near her ; and, while
she was anxious to be relieved from her ap-
prehension for his safety, she stiil was un
conscious that a hope of soon seeing him
struggled with the fear.

She remained listening at the casement,
till the air began to freshen, and one high
mountain in the east to glimmer with the
morning ; when, wearied with anxiety, she
retired to her couch, where she found it ut-
terly impossible to sleep, for joy, tenderness,
doubt, and apprehension, distracted her
during the whole night. Now she rose from
the couch, and opened the casement to lis-
ten; then she would pace the room with
impatient steps, and, at length, return with
despondence to her pillow. Never did hours
appear to move so heavily as those of this
anxious night ; after which she hoped that
Annette might appear, and conclude her
present state of torturing suspence.

CHAP XXXI.

Might we out hear

The folded flocks penn'd in their wattled cotes,
Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops
Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock
Count the night watches to his feathery dames
'T would be some solace yet, some little cheering
In this close dungeon of lnnumeroxs boughs."

MILTON.

In the morning, Emily was relieved from
her fears for Annette, who came at an early
hour.

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

C{ Here were fine doings hi the castle last
night, ma'amselle," said she, as soon as she
entered the room, — " fine doings, indeed !
Was you not frightened, ma'amselle, at not
seeing me ?"

■ 1 was alarmed both on your account
and on my own," replied Emily. " What
detained you ?"

" Aye, 1 said so, I told him so ; but it
would not do. It was not my fault, indeed,
ma'amselle, for I could not get out. That
rogue Ludovico locked me up again."

" Locked you up !" said Emily, with dis-
pleasure ; " why do you permit Ludovico to
lock you up ?"

" Holy Saints !" exclaimed Annette, " how
can I help it? If he will lock the door,
ma'amselle, and take away the key, how am
I to get out, unless I jump through the
window ? But that 1 should not mind so
much, if the casements here were not all so
high •, one can hardly scramble up to them
on the inside, and one should break one's
neck, I suppose, going down on the outside.
But you know, I dare say, ma'am, what a
hurly-burly the castle was in last night ; you
must have heard some of the uproar."

" What, were they disputing, then ?" said
Emily.

" No, ma'amselle, not fighting, but almost
as good, for I believe there was not one of
the signors sober, and, what is**Tuore, not
one of those fine ladies sober either. I
thought, when I first saw them, that all
those fine silks and fine veils — why, ma'am-
selle, their veils were worked with silver ! —
and fine trimmings, boded no good — I
guessed what they were !"

" Good God !" exclaimed Emily, " what
will become of me !"

" Aye, ma'am, Ludovico said much the

same thing of me. ' Good God !' said he,

' Annette, what is to become of you, if you

are to go running about the castle among

all these drunken signors ?' O ! says 1, for

that matter, I only want to go to my young

lady's chamber, and I have only to go, you

know, along the vaulted passage, and across

the great hall, and up the marble staircase,

and along the north gallery, and through the

west wing of the castle, and I am in the

corridor in a minute. * Are you so ?' says

he ; i and what is to become of you, if you

meet any of those noble cavaliers in the

way ?' Well, says I, if you think there is

danger then, go with me, and guard me ; I

am never afraid when you are by. « What P

says he, * when I am scarcely recovered of

one wound, shall I put myself in the way of

getting another ? For if any of the cava-

liers meet you, they will fall a fighting with

me directly. No, no,' says he j < I will cut

the way shorter than through the Vaulted

passage, and up the marble staircase, and

along the north gallery, and through the
west wing of the castle, for ycu shall stay
here, Annette ; you shall not go out of this

room to-night.' So with that I says "

" Well, well," said Emily, impatiently,
and anxious to enquire on another subject,
" so he locked you up :"

* Yes, he did indeed, ma'amselle, not-
withstanding all I could say to the contrary ;
and Catarina, and I, and he, staid there all
night. And in a few minutes after I was
not so vexed, for there came Signor Verezzi
roaring along the passage like a mad bull,
and he mistook Ludovico's hall for old
Carlo's ; so he tried to burst open the door,
and called out for more wine, for that he
had drunk all the flasks dry, and was dying
of thirst. So we were all as still as night,
that he might suppose there was nobody in
the room ; but the signor was as cunning as
the best of us, and kept calling out at the
door. c Come forth, my ancient hero !' said
he 5 i here is no enemy at the gate that you
need hide yourself: come forth, my valour-
ous Signor Steward !' Just then old Carlo
opened his door, and he came with a flask
in his hand ; for, as soon as the signor saw
him, he was as tame as could be, and fol-
lowed him away as naturally as a dog does
a butcher with a piece of meat in his basket.
All this I saw through the key-hole. 'Well,
Annette,' said Ludovico, jceringly, * shall I
let you out now ?' O no, says I, I would

not "

u I have some qviestions to ask you on
another subject," interrupted Emily, quite
wearied by this story. " Do you knuw whe-
ther there are any prisoners in the castle,
and whether they are confined at this end of
the edifice ?"

" I was not in the way, ma'amselle," re-
plied Annette, " when the first party came
in from the mountains, and the last party is
not come back yet, so 1 don't know whether
there are any prisoners j but it is expected
back to-night, or to-morrow, and I shall
know then, perhaps."

Emily enquired if she had ever heard the
servants talk of prisoners.

" Ah, ma'amselle !" said Annette archly,
u now 1 dare say you are thinking of Mon-
sieur Valancourt, and that he may have
come among the armies, which, they say,
are come from our country to fight against
this state, and that he has. met with some of
our people, and is taken captive. O Lord !
how glad I should be, if it was so !"

"Would you, indeed, be glad?" said
Emily, in a tone of mournful reproach.

" To be sure I should, ma'am," replied
Annette, " and would not you be glad too,
to see Signor Valancourt ? I don't know
any chevalier I like better, I have a very
great regard for the signor, truly."

THE MYSTERIES OF t'DOLMlO.

I A

Your regard for him caunot be doubt*
rd," said Emily, H since yoa wish to see him
a piisoner"

" Why do, ma'amselle, not a prisoner

r: but one mu«t be glad to see him,

Hr. And it was only the other night

I dreamt — T dreamt I saw him drive into the

castle-yard all in a coach and six, and dressed

i with ;i laced coat and a sword, like a

lord as he is.**

Emily could not forbear smiling at An-
nette's ideas of Valancourt, and repeated ber
enquiry, whether she had beard the servants
talk of prison-

• -No, ma'amselie," replied sh*», " never ;
and lately they have done not' I talk

of the apparition, that has been walking
about of a night on the ramparts, and I
.tened the sentinels into tits. It came
Mg them like a flash of fire, they say,
and they all fell down in a row, till (
came to themselves again ; and then it was
gone, and nothing to be seen but the old
castle walls ; so they helped one another up
again as fast as they could. You would
believe, ma'amselle, though I shewed
you the very cannon where it used to ap-
pear.1'

u And are you, indeed, so simple, An-
nette," said Emily, smiling at this cur;

j leration of the circumstances she had
witnessed, u as to credit these si

u Credit them, ma'amselle ! why all the
world could not persuade me out of them.
Roberto and Sebastian, and half a d
more of them, went into fits ! To be -
there was no occasion for that 5 I said, my-
self, there was no need of that, for, says I,
when the enemy comes, what a pretty figure
they will cut, if they are to fall down in fits
all of a row ! The enemy won't be so civil,
perhaps, as to walk off like the and

leave them to help one another up, but will
utting and slashing, till he makes
them all rise up dead men. No, no, savi I,
there is reason in all things : though I might
have fallen down in a fit, that was no rule
hem, being, because it was no business
of mine to look gruff and fight battles."

Emily endeavoured to correct the super-
stitious weakness of Annette, though she
could not entirely subdue her own ; to
which the latter only replied, u Nay, ma'am-
selle, you will believe nothing -y you are al-
most as bad as the signor himself, who was
in a great passion, when they told him of
what had happened, and swore that the first
man, who repeated such nonsense, should be
thrown into the dungeon under the east tur-
ret. This was a hard punishment too, for
only talking nonsense, as he called it 5 but I
dare say he had other reasons for calling it
so, than you have, ma'am.**

oily looked displeased, and made no re-

ply. As she mused upon the recolb
appearance, which had lately so much
alarmed her, and considered the circum-
stances of the figure having stationed itself
opposite to her casement, she was for a mo.
t inclined to believe it was Valancourt
whom she had seen. Yet, if it was he, why
did he not speak to ber, when be had the
,rtunity of doing so— and, if he was a
prisoner in the castle, and he could be here
in no other character, bow could he obi
the means of walking abroad on the ram-
part ? Thus she was utterly unah
cide, whether the musician and the form she
had observed were the same, or, if they
were, whether this was Valancourt. 6
however, desired that Annette would endea-
vour to learn whether any prisoners were in
the castle, and also their names.

" O dear, ma'amselle !" said Annette, u I
forgot to tell you what you bade me ask
about — the ladies, as they call themselves,
who are lately come to Udolpho. Why that
iVignora Livona, that the signor brought to
see my late lady at Venice, is his mistress
now, and was little better then, J dare say.
And Lndovico says (but pray be secret,
ma'am) that his excetlenza introduced ber
only to impose upon the world, that had be-
gun to make free with her character. 80
when people saw my lady notice her, they
thought what they had heard must be scan-
dal. The other two are the mistresses of
Signor Verezzi and Signor Bcrtolini; and
the Signor Montoni invited them all to the
castle; and s/ Jay, he gave a great

entertainment 5 and there they were, all
drinking Tuscany wine and all sorts, and
laughing and singing, till they made the
castle ring again. But I thought they were
dismal sounds, so soon after my poor lady's
death too ; and they brought to my mind
what she would have thought, if she had
heard them — but she cannot hear them
now, poor soul ! said L"

Emily turned away to conceal her emo-
tion, and then desired Annette to go, and
make enquiry concerning the prisoners that
might be in the castle, but conjured ber to
do it with caution, and on no account to
mention her name, or that of Monsieur Va-
lancourt.

u Now I think of it, ma'amselle/' said
Annette, " I do believe there are prisoners,
for I overheard one of the signor's men,
yesterday, in the servants' hall, talk
something about ransoms, and saying what
a fine thing it was for his txctllenza to
catch up men, and they were as good booty
as any other, because of the ransoms. And
the other man was grumbling, and saying it
was fine enough for the signor, but none so
fine for his soldiers, because, said he, we
don't go shares there.''

i*yi

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPIIO.

Tliis information heightened Emily's im-
patience to know more, and Annette imme-
diately departed on her inquiry.

The late resolution of Emily to resign her
estates to Montoni, now gave way to new
considerations ; the possibility that Valan-
court was near her, revived her fortitude,
and she determined to brave the threatened
vengeance, at least, till she could be assured
whether he was really in the castle. She
was in this temper of mind, when she re-
ceived a message from Montoni, requiring
her attendance in the cedar-parlour, which
she obeyed with trembling, and, on her w.^y
thither, endeavoured to animate her forti
tude with the idea of Valancourt.

Montoni was alone. " I sent for you,"
said he, " to give you another opportunity
of retracting your late mistaken assertions
concerning the Langnedoc estates. I will
condescend to advise, where I may com-
mand.— If you are really deluded by an
opinion, that you have any right to these
estates, at least do not persist in the error —
an error which you may perceive, too late,
has been fatal to you. Dare my resentment
no further, but sign the papers."

" If I have no right in these estates, sir,*
said Emily, * of what service can it be to
you, that I should sign any papers concern-
ing them ? If the lands are your's by law,
you certainly may possess them without my
interference or consent."

" I will have no more argument," said
Montoni, with a look that made her trem-
ble. " What had I but trouble to expect,
when I condescended to reason with a baby!
But I will be trifled with no longer : let the
recollection of your aunt's sufferings, in
consequence of her folly and obstinacy,
teach you a lesson. — Sign the papers."

Emjiy*s resolution was for a moment
awed : — she shrunk at the recollections he
revived, and from the vengeance he threat-
ened ; but then, the image of Valancourt,
who so long had loved her, and who was
now, perhaps, so near her, came to her heart,
and, together with the strong feelings of in *
dignation, with which she had always, from
her infancy, regarded an act of injustice, in-
spired her with a noble, though imprudent,
courage.

" Sign the papers," said Montoni, more
impatiently than before.

" Never, sir," replied Emily ; " that re-
quest would have proved to me the injustice
of your claim, had I eveu been ignorant of
my right."

Montoni turned pale with anger, while
his quivering lip, and lurking eye, made
her almost repent the boldness of her
speech.

" Then all my vengeance falls upon you,"
be exclaimed, with an horrible oath. " And

think not it 9hall be delayed. Neithe* (he
estates in Languedoc, or Gascony, shall be
your's ; you have dared to question my
right— now dare to question my power. I
have a punishment which you think not of;
it is terrible ! This night — this very
night "

u This night !" repeated another voice.

Montoni paused, and turned half round,
but, seeming to recollect himself, he pro-
ceeded in a lower tone.

" You have lately seen one terrible ex-
ample of obstinacy and folly, yet this, it
appears, has not been sufficient to deter

you. — I could tell you of others. I

could make you tremble at the bare re-
cital."

He was interrupted by a groan, which
seemed to rise from underneath the chamber
they were in ; and, as he threw a glance
round it, impatience and rage flashed from
his eyes,\ yet something like a shade of fear
passed oyer his countenance. Emily sat
down in a' chair, near the door, for the vari-
ous emotions she had suffered, now almost
overcame her; but Montoni paused scarcely
an instant, and, commanding his features,
resumed his discourse in a lower, yet sterner
voice.

" I say, I could give yen other instances
of my power and of my character, which it
seems you do not understand, or you would
not defy me. — I could tell you, that when
once my resolution is taken — But I am
talking to a baby. Let me, however, re-
peat, that terrible as are the examples I
could recite, the recital could not now be
nefit you ; for, though your repentance
would put an immediate end to opposition,
it would not now appease myindignatioi
I will have vengeance, as well as justice."

Another groan filled the pause whicl
Montoni made.

" Leave the room instantly!" said he
seeming not to notice this strange occur-
rence. Without power to implore his pity,
she rose, to go, but found that she could not
support herself ; awe and terror overcame
her, and she sunk again into the chair.

cried Montoni
ill becomes the
heroine who has just dared to brave my in-
diguation."

u Bid you hear nothing, signor ?" said
Emily, trembling, and still unable to leave
the room.

" I heard my own voice," rejoined Mon
toni, sternly.

" And nothing else ?" said Emily, speak
ing with difficulty. — « There agajn ! Do yoi
hear nothing now ?"

" Obey my order," repeated Montoni.
" And for these fool's tricks — I will sotfl
discover by whom they are practised."

" Quit my presence !"
" This affectation of fear

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

lt>3

Emily again rose, and exerted herself to
the utmost to leave the room, while Mon-
toni followed her ; but, instead of calling
aloud to his servants to search the chamber,
as he had formerly done on a similar occur-
rence, passed to the ramparts.

As, in her way to the corridor, she rested
for a moment at an open casement, Emily
saw a party of Mon toni's troops winding
down a distant mountain, whom she noticed
no further than as they brought to her mind
the wretched prisoners they were, perhaps,
bringing to the castle. At length, having
reached her apartment, she threw herself
upon the couch, overcome with the new
horrors of her situation. Her thoughts, lost
in tumult and perplexity, she could neither
repent of, or approve, her late conduct : she
could only remember that she was in the
power of a man who had no principle of ac-
tion— but his will; and the astonishment
and terrors of superstition, whicfy had, for a
moment, so strongly assailed her, now
yielded to those of reason.

She was, at length, roused from the re-
verie which engaged her, by a confusion of
distant voices, and a clattering of hoofs, that
seemed to come, on the wind, from the
courts. A sudden hope that some good
was approaching seized her mind, till she
remembered the troops she had observed
from the casement, and concluded this to
be the party which Annette had said were
expected at Udolpho.

Soon after, she heard voices faintly from
the halls, and the noise of horses' feet sunk
away in the wind; silence ensued. Emily
listened anxiously for Annette's step in the
corridor; hut a pause of total stillness con-
tinued, till again the castle seemed to be all
tumult and confusion. She heard the echoes
of many footsteps passing to and fro in the
haHs and avenues below, and then busy
tongues were loud on the rampart. Having
hurried to her casement, she perceived
Montoni, with some of his officers, leaning
on the walls, and pointing from them; while
several soldiers were employed at the further
end of the rampart about some cannon ; and
she continued to observe them, careless of
the passing time.

Annette at length appeared, but brought
no intelligence of Valancourt ; " for, ma'am-
selle," said she, w all the people pretend to
know nothing about any prisoners. But
here is a fine piece of business ! The rest of
the party are just arrived, ma'am ; they
came scampering in, as if they would have
broken their necks ; one scarcely knew whe-
ther the man or his horse would get within
the gates first. And they have brought
word — and such news ! — they have brought
word, that a party of the enemy, as they
call them, are coining' towards the castle ;
O

so we shall have all the officers of justice,
I suppose, besieging it ! all those terrible-
looking fellows one used to see at Venice !"

" Thank God !" exclaimed Emily, fer-
vently, " there is yet a hope left for me,
then !"

" What mean you, ma'amselle ? Do you
wish to fall into the hands of those sad-look-
ing men ! Why, I used to shudder as I
passed them, and should have guessed what
they were, if Ludovico had not told me."

" We cannot be in worse hands than at
present," replied Emily, unguardedly.—
" But what reason have you to suppose these
are officers of justice ?"

" Why, our people, ma'am, are all in
such a fright and a fuss ; and I don't know
any thing but the fear of justice that could
make them so. I used to think nothing on
earth could fluster them, unless, indeed, it
was a ghost, or so ; but now, some of them
are for hiding down in the vaults under the
castle; but you must not tell the signor
this, ma'amselle ; and I overheard two of

them talking Holy Mother! what makes

you look so sad, ma'amselle ? You don't
hear what I say !"

" Yes, I do, Annette ; pray proceed."

" Well, ma'amselle, all the castle is in
such hurly-burly ! Some of the mon are
loading the cannon, and some are examining
the great gates, and the walls all round, and
are hammering and patching up, just as if
all those repairs had never been made that
were so long about. But what is to become
of me and you, ma'amselle, and Ludovico ?
O ! when I hear the sound of the cannon, I
shall die with fright ! If I could but catch
the great gate open for one minute, I would
be even with it -for shutting me within these
walls so long — it should never see me again !"

Emily caught the latter words of Annette.
" O ! if you could find it open but for one
moment," she exclaimed, " my peace might
yet be saved !" The heavy groan she ut-
tered, and the wildness of her look, terrified
Annette still more than her words, who en-
treated Emily to explain the meaning of
them ; to whom it suddenly occurred that
Ludovico might be of some service, if there
should be a possibility of escape, and who
repeated the substance of what had passed
between Montoni and herself, but conjured
her to mention this to no person except to
Ludovico. " It may, perhaps, be in his
power," she added, " to effect our escape.
Go to him, Annette ; tell him what 1 have
to apprehend, and what 1 have already suf-
fered ; but entreat him to be secret, and to
lose no time in attempting to release us.—
If he is willing to undertake this, he shall
be amply rewarded. I cannot speak with
him myself, for we might be observed, and
then efi'tctital care would be taken to pre-

104

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

vent our flight. But be quick, nnette,
and, above all, be discreet. I will await
your return in this apartment."

The girl, whose honest heart had been
much affected by the recital, was now as
eager to obey as Emily was to employ her,
and she immediately quitted the room.

Emily's surprise increased as she reflected
upon Annette's intelligence. K Alas !" said
she, " what can the officers of justice do
against an armed castle? these cannot be
such." Upon further consideration, how-
ever, she concluded, that Montoni's bands
having plundered the country round, the
inhabitants had taken arms, and were coming
with the officers of police and a party of
soldiers to force their way into the castle.
" But they know not," thought she, " its
strength, or the armed numbers within it.—
Alas ! except from flight, I have nothing to
hope !"

Montoni, though not precisely what Emily
apprehended him to be — a captain of ban-
ditti, had employed his troops in enterprises
not less daring, or less atrocious, than such
a character would have undertaken^ They
had not only pillaged, whenever opportunity
offered, the helpless traveller, but had at-
tacked and plundered the villas of several
persons, which, being situated among the
solitary recesses of the mountains, were to-
tally unprepared for resistance. In these
expeditions the commanders of the party
did not appear 5 and the men, partly dis-
guised, had sometimes been mistaken for
common robbers, and at others for bands of
the foreign enemy, who at that period in-
vaded the country. But, though they had
already pillaged several mansions, and
brought home considerable treasures, they
had ventured to approach only one castle,
in the attack of which they were assisted by
other troops of their own order; — from
this, however, they were vigorously repulsed,
and pursued by some of the foreign enemy,
who were in league with the besieged.—
Montoni's troops fled precipitately towards
Udolpho, but were so closely tracked over
the mountains, that when they reached one
of the heights in the neighbourhood of the
castle, and looked back upon the road, they
perceived the enemy winding among the
cliffs below, and not more than a league
distant. Upon this*discovery they hastened
forward with increased speed, to prepare
Montoni for the enemy \ and it was their ar-
rival which had thrown the castle into such
confusion and tumult.

As Emily awaited anxiously some infor-
mation from below, she now saw from her
casements a body of troops pour over the
neighbouring heights ; and, though Annette
had been gone a very short time, and had a
difficult artd dangerous business to accom-
plish, her impatience for intelligence became

painful ; she listened, opened her door, and
often went out upon the corridor to meet
her.

At length she heard a footstep approach
her chamber, and, on opening the door, saw
not Annette, but old Carlo. New fears
rushed upon her mind. He said he came
from the signor, who had ordered him to
inform her, that she must be ready to depart
from Udolpho immediately, for that the cas-
tle was about to be besieged, and that mules
were preparing to convey her, with her
guides, to a place of safety.

" Of safety !" exclaimed Emily, thought
lessly ; " has, then, the signor so much con-
sideration for me ?"

Carlo looked upon the ground, and made
no reply. A thousand opposite emotions
agitated Emily successively as she listened
to old Carlo : those of joy, grief, distrust,
and apprehension, appeared and vanished
from her mind with the quickness of light-
ning. One moment it seemed impossible
that Montoni could take this measure merely
for her preservation; and so very strange
was his sending her from the castle at all,
that she could attribute it only to the de-
sign of carrying into execution the new
scheme of vengeance with which he had
menaced her. In the next instant, it ap-
peared so desirable to quit the castle under
any circumstances, that she could not but
rejoice in the prospect, believing that
change must be for the better, till she re
membered the probability of Valancourt be-
ing detained in it, when sorrow and regret
usurped her mind, and she wished, much
more fervently than she had yet done, that
it might not be his voice which she had
heard.

Carlo having reminded her that she had
no time to lose, for that the enemy were
within sight of the castle, Emily entreated
him to inform her whither she was to go ;
and, after some hesitation, he said he had
received no orders to tell ; but, on her re-
peating the question, replied, that he be-
lieved she was to be carried into Tuscany.

" To Tuscany !" exclaimed Emily ; w and
why thither ?"

Carlo answered that he knew nothing fur-
ther, than that she was to be lodged in a
cottage on the borders of Tuscany, at the
feet of the Apennines, " Not a day's journey
distant," said he.

Emily now dismissed him, and, with
trembling hands, prepared the small package
that she meant to take with her ; while she
was employed about which, Annette re-
turned.

" O ma'amselle !" said she, * nothing cau
be done ! Ludovico says the new porter is
more watchful even than Barnardine was,
and we might as well throw ourselves in the
way of a dragon as in his. Ludovico is al •

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

!<>5

most as broken-hearted as you are, ma'am,
on my account, he says •, and I am sure I
shall never live to hear the cannon fire
twice !"

She now began to weep, but revived upon
hearing of what had just occurred, and en-
treated Emily to take her with her.

" That I will do most willingly," replied
Emily, " if Signor Montoni permits it 5" to
which Annette made no reply, but ran out
of the room, and immediately sought Mon-
toni, who was on the terrace, surrounded by
iiis officers, where she began her petition.
He sharply bade her go into the castle, and
absolutely refused her request. Annette,
however, not only pleaded for herself, but
for Ludovico; and Montoni had ordered
some of his men to take her from his pre-
sence before she would retire.

In an agony of disappointment, she re-
turned to Emily, who foreboded little good
towards herself from this refusal to Annette,
and who, soon after, received a summons to
repair to the great court* where the mules,
with her guides, were, in waiting. Emiiy
here tried in vain to soothe the weeping An-
nette, who persisted in saying that she
should never see her dear young lady again ;
a. fear which her mistress secretly thought
too well justified, but which she endeavoured
to restrain, while, with apparent composure,
she bade this affectionate servant farewell.
Annette, however, followed to the courts,
which were now thronged with people, busy
in preparation for the enemy ; and having
seen her mount her mule, and depart with
her attendants through the portal, turned
into the castle, and wept again.

Emily, meanwhile, as she looked back
upon the gloomy courts of the castle, no
longer silent as when she had first entered
them, but resounding with the noise of pre-
paration for their defence, as well as crowd-
ed with soldiers and workmen hurrying to
and fro 5 and, when she passed once more
under the huge portcullis, which had for-
merly struck her with terror and dismay,
and, looking round, saw no walls to confine
her steps, — felt, in spite of anticipation, the
sudden joy of a prisoner, who unexpectedly
finds himself at liberty. This emotion would
not suffer her now to look impartially on
the dangers that awaited her without ; on
mountains infested by hostile parties, who
seized every opportunity for plunder 5 and
on a journey commenced under the guidance
of men, whose countenances certainly did
not speak favourably of their dispositions.
In the present moments, she could only re-
joice that she was liberated from those walls,
which she had entered with such dismal fore-
bodings ; and, remembering the supersti-
tious presentiment which had then seized
her, she could now smile at the impression it
had made upon her mind.

As she gazed, with these emotions, upon
the turrets of the castle, rising high over the
woods among which she wound, the stran-
ger, whom she believed to be confined there,
returned to her remembrance ; and anxiety
and apprehension lest he should be Valan-
court, again passed like a cloud upon her
joy. She recollected every circumstance
concerning this unknown person, since the
night when she had first heard him play the
song of her native province ; circumstances
which she had so often recollected, and com-
pared before, without extracting from them
any thing like conviction, and which still
only prompted her to believe that Valan-
court was a prisoner at Udolpho. It was
possible, however, that the men who were
her conductors might afford her information
on this subject; but, fearing to question
them immediately, lest they should be un-
willing to discover any circumstance to her
in the presence of each other, she watched
for an opportunity of speaking with them
separately.

Soon after, a trumpet echoed faintly from
a distance 5 the guides stopped, and looked
towards the quarter whence it came ; but the
thick woods which surrounded them exclu-
ding all view of the country beyond, one of
the men rode on to the point of an eminence,
that afforded a more extensive prospect, to
observe how near the enemy, whose trumpet
he guessed this to be, were advanced 5 — the
other, meanwhile, remained with Emily, and
to him she put some questions concerning
the stranger at Udolpho. Ugo, for this was
his name, said, that there were several pri-
soners in the castle, but he neither recol-
lected their persons, or the precise time of
their arrival, and could therefore give her
no information. There was a surliness in
his manner, as he spoke, that made it pro-
bable he would not have satisfied her en-
quiries, even if he could have done so.

Having asked him what prisoners had
been taken about the time, as nearly as she
could remember, when she had first heard
the music, " All that week," said Ugo, " 1
was out with a party upon the mountains,
and knew nothing of what was doing at the
castle. We had enough upon our hands—
we had warm work of it."

Bertrand, the other man, being now re-
turned, Emily enquired no further ; and,
when he had related to his companion what
he had seen, they travelled on in deep si-
lence ; while Emily often caught, between
the opening woods, partial glimpses of the
castle above, the west towers, whose battle-
ments were now crowded with archers, and
the ramparts below, where soldiers were seen
hurrying along, or busy upon the walls, pre-
paring the cannon.

Having emerged from the woods, they
wound all along the valley in an opposite

im

THE IWYSI EKIES OF UDOLPHO.

direction to that from whence the enemy
were approaching. Emily had now a full
view of Udolpho, with its grey walls, towers
and terraces, high over-topping the preci-
pices and the dark woods, and glittering
partially with tht arms of the Condottieri,
as the sun's rays, streaming through an au-
tumnal cloud, glanced upon a part of the
edifice, whose remaining features stood in
darkened majesty. She continued to gaze,
through her tears, upon walls that, perhaps,
confined Valancourt, and which now, as the
cloud floated away, were lighted up with
sudden splendour, and then, as suddenly
were shrouded in gloom ; while the passing
gleam fell on the wood-tops below and
heightened the first tints of autunh, that
had begun to steal upon the foliage The
winding mountains, at length, shut Udolpho
from her view, and she turned, with mourn-
ful reluctance, to other objects. The me-
lancholy sighing of the wind among the
pines, that waved high over the steeps, and
the distant thunder of a torrent, assisted her
musings, and conspired, with the wild sce-
nery around, to diffuse over her mind emo-
tions solemn, yet not unp leasing, but which
were soon interrupted by the distant roar of
cannon, echoing among the mountains. The
sounds rolled along the wind, and were re-
peated in faint and fainter reverberation,
till they sunk in sullen murmurs. This was
a signal, that the enemy had reached the
castle, and fear for Valancourt again tor-
mented Emily. She turned her anxious eye
towards that part of the country, where the
edifice stood, but the intervening heights
concealed it from her view 5 still, however,
she saw the tall head of a mountain, which
immediately fronted her late chamber, and
on this she fixed her gaze, as if it could have
told her of all that was passing in the scene
it overlooked. The guides twice rejninded
her that she was losing time, and that they
had far to go, before she could turn from
this interesting object, and, even when she
again moved onward, she often sent a look
back, till only its blue point, brightening in
a gleam *of sunshine, appeared peeping over
other mountains.

The sound of the cannon affected Ugo,
as the blast of the trumpet does the war-
horse \ it called forth all the fire of his
nature ; he was impatient to be in the
midst of the fight, and uttered frequent
execrations against Montoni for having sent
him to a distance. The feelings of his com-
rade seemed to be very opposite, and adapt-
ed rather to the cruelties than to the dan-
gers of war.

Emily asked frequent questions concern-
ing the place of her destination, but could
only learn, that she was going to a cottage
in Tuscany ; and, whenever she mentioned
the subject, she fancied she perceived, in

the countenances of these men, an ex«
pression of malice and cunning that alarmed
her.

It was afternoon, when they had left the
castle. During several hours, the 5 travelled
through regions of profound solitude, where
no bleat of sheep, or bark of watch-dog,
broke on silence, and they were now too far
off to hear even the faint thunder of the
cannon. Towards evening, they wound
down precipices, black with forests of cy-
press, pine, and cedar, into a glen so savage
and secluded, that, if Solitude ever had local
habitation, this might have been " her place
of dearest residence." To Emily it appear-
ed a spot exactly suited for the retreat of
banditti, and, in her imagination, she already
saw them lurking under the brow of some
projecting rock, whence their shadows,
lengthened by the setting sun, stretched
across the road, and warned the traveller of
his danger. She shuddered at the idea, and,
looking at her conductors, to observe whe-
ther they were armed, thought she saw in
them the banditti she dreaded !

It was in this glen that they proposed to
alight, " For," said Ugo, " night will come
on presently, and then the wolves will make
it dangerous to stop." This was a new sub
ject of alarm to Emily, but inferior to what
she suffered from the thought of being left
in these wilds, at midnight, with two such
men as her present conductors. Dark and
dreadful hints of what might be Montoni's
purpose in sending her hither, came to her
mind. She endeavoured to dissuade the
men from stopping, and enquired, with
anxiety, how far they had yet to go.

" Many leagues yet," replied Bertrand.
"As for you, signora, you may do as you
please about eating, but for us, we will
make a hearty supper, while we can. We
shall have need of it, I warrant, before we
finish our journey. The sun's going down
apace \ let us alight under that rock, yon-
der."

His comrade assented, and turning the
mules out of the road, they advanced to-
wards a cliff, overhung with cedars, Emily
following in trembling silence. They lifted
her from her mule, and, having seated them-
selves on the grass, at the foot of the rocks,
drew some homely fare from a wallet, ol
which Emily tried to eat a little, the better
to disguise her apprehensions.

The sun was now sunk behind the high
mountains in the west, upon which a pur-
ple haze began to spread, and the gloom of
twilight to draw over the surrounding ob-
jects. To the low and sullen murmur of the
breeze, passing among the woods, she no
longer listened with any degree of pleasure,
*br it conspired with the wildness of the
scene and the evening hour, to depress hei
spirits.

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO

11)7

Suspense had so much increased her anx-
iety, as to the prisoner at Udolpho, that find-
ing it impracticable to speak alone with
Bertrand, on that subject, she renewed her
questions in the presence of Ugo ; but he
either was, or pretended to be, entirely igno-
rant concerning the stranger. When he had
dismissed the question, he talked with Ugo
on some subjects, which led to the mention
of Signor Orsino, and of the affair that had
banished him from Venice ; respecting which
Emily had ventured to ask a few questions.
Ugo appeared to be well acquainted with
the circumstances of that tragical event,
and related some minute particulars, that
both shocked and surprised her; for it
appeared very extraordinary how such par-
ticulars could be known to any, but to per-
sons present when the assassination was
committed.

u He was of rank," said Bertrand, "or
the state would not have troubled itself to
enquire after his assassins. The signor has
been lucky hitherto ; this is not the first
affair of the kind he has had upon his hands ;
and to be sure, when a gentleman has no
other way of getting redress — why he must
take this."

" Aye," said Ugo, " and why is not this
as good as another ? This is the way to
have justice done at once, without more
ado. If you go to law, you must stay till
the judges please, and may lose your cause
at last. Why the best way, then, is to make
sure of your right while you can, and exe-
cute justice yourself."

" Yes, yes," rejoined Bertrand, <c if you
wait till justice is done you — you may stay
long enough. Why if I want a friend of
mine properly served, how am I to get my
revenge ? Ten to one they will tell me he
is in the right, and I am in the wrong. Or,
if a fellow has got possession of property,
which I think ought to be mine, why 1 may
wait till I starve, perhaps, before the law
will give it me, and then after all, the judge
may say — the estate is his. What is to be
done then ? — Why the case is plain enough,
I must take it at last."

Emily's horror at this conversation was
heightened by a suspicion, that the latter
part of it was pointed against herself, and
that these men had been commissioned by
Montoni to execute a similar kind of justice
in his cause.

" But I was speaking of Signor Orsino,"
resumed Bertrand, " he is one of those who
love to do justice at once. I remember,
about ten years ago, the signor had a quar-
rel with a cavaliero of Milan. The story
was told me then, and it is still fresh in my
head. They quarrelled about a lady that
the signor liked, and she was perverse
enough to prefer the gentleman of Milan,
and even carried her whim so far as to

marry him. This provoked the signor, a :
well it might, for he had tried to talk reason
to her a long while, and used to send peo-
ple to serenade her, under her windows of a
night ; and used to make verses about her,
and would swear she was the handsomest
lady in Milan. — But all would not do — no-
thing would bring her to reason 5 and, as I
said, she went so far at last, as to marry this
other cavaliero. This made the signor wroth,
with a vengeance ; he resolved to be even
with her though, and he watched his oppor-
tunity, and did not wait long, for soon after
the marriage, they set out for Padua, no-
thing doubting, I warrant, of what was pre-
paring for them. The cavaliero thought, to
be sure, he was to be called to no account,
but was to go off triumphant 3 but he was
soon made to know another sort of story."

a What, then the lady had promised to
have Signor Orsino ?" said Ugo.

" Promised ! No," replied Bertrand,
" she had not wit enough even to tell him
she liked him, as I heard, but the contrary,
for she used to say, from the first, she never
meant to have him. And this was what
provoked the signor so, and with good rea-
son, for who likes to be fold that he is disa-
greeable? and this was saying as good. It
was enough to tell him this ; she need not
have gone, and married another."

" What, she married, then, on purpose to
plague the signor ?" said Ugo.

" I don't know as for that," replied Ber-
trand ; " they said, indeed, that she had had
a regard for the other gentleman a great
while : but that is nothing to the purpose,
she should not have married him, and then
the signor would not have been so much
provoked. She might have expected what
was to follow ; it was not to be supposed he
would bear her ill usage tamely, and she
might thank herself for what happened.
But, as I said, they set out for Padua, she
and her husband, and the road lay over
some barren mountains like these. This
suited the signor's purpose well. He watch-
ed the time of their departure, and sent his
men after them, with directions what to do.
They kept their distance, till they saw their
opportunity, and this did not happen, till
the second day's journey, when, the gentle-
man having sent his servants forward to the
next town, may-be, to have horses in readi-
ness, the signor's men quickened their pace,
and overtook the carriage, in a hollow, be-
tween two mountains, where the woods pre •
vented the servants from seeing what passed,
though they were then not far off. When
we came up, we fired our tromboni, but
missed."

Emily turned pale at these words, and then
hoped she had mistaken them ; while Ber-
trand proceeded :

" The gentleman fired again, but he was

tm

THE M1STERIES OF VDOIJHO:

soon made to alight, and it was as he turn-
ed to call his people, that he was struck. It
was the most dexterous feat you ever saw-
he was struck in the back with three stilettos
at once. He fell, and was dispatched in a
minute j but the lady escaped, for the ser-
vants had heard the firing, and came up be-
fore she could be taken care of. * Bertrand,'
said the signor, when his men returned

" Bertrand !" exclaimed Emily, pale with
horror, on whom not a syllable of this nar-
rative had been lost.

" Bertrand, did I say ?" rejoined the mau,
with some confusion.-—" No, Giovanni. But
1 have forgot where I was 5 — * Bertrand,'
said the signor—"

" Bertrand again !" said Emily, in a fal-
tering voice, " Why do you repeat that
name ?"

Bertrand swore. " What signifies it," he
proceeded, " what the man was called—
Bertrand, or Giovanni — or Roberto ; it's all
one for that. You have put me out twice
with that — question. * Bertrand,' or Gio-
vanni— or what you will — f Bertrand,' said
the signor, ' if your comrades had done their
duty, as well as you, I should not have lost
the lady. Go, my honest fellow, and be
happy with this.T He gave him a purse of
gold — and little enough too, considering the
service he had done him."

" Aye, aye," said Ugo, u little enough— -
little enough."

Emily now breathed with difficulty, and
could scarcely support herself. When first
she saw these men, their appearance and
their connexion with Montoni had been suf-
ficient to impress her with distrust j but
now, when One of them had betrayed himself
to be a murderer, and she saw herself, at the
approach of night, under his guidance,
among wild and solitary mountains, and
going she scarcely knew whither, the most
agonizing terror seized her, which was the
less supportable from the necessity she
found herself under of concealing all symp-
toms of it from her companions. Reflect-
ing on the character and the menaces of
Montoni, it appeared not improbable that
he had delivered her to them, for the purpose
of having her murdered, and of thus secur-
ing to himself, without further opposition or
delay, the estates for which he had so long
and so desperately contended. Yet, if this
was his design, there appeared no necessity
for sending her to such a distance from the
castle j for, if any dread of discovery had
made him unwilling to perpetrate the deed
there, a much nearer place might have suf-
ficed for the purpose of concealment. These
considerations, however, did not immediately
occur to Emily, with whom so many cir-
cumstances conspired to rouse terror, that
she had no power to oppose it, or to inquire

coolly into its grounds 3 and, if she had7
done so, still there were many appearances
which would too well have justified her most
terrible apprehensions. She did not now dare
to speak to her conductors, at the sound of
whose voices she trembled ; and when, now
and then, she stole a glance at them, their
countenances, seen imperfectly through the
gloom of evening, served to confirm her
fears.

The sun had now been set some time ;
heavy clouds, whose fower skirts were tinged
with sulphureous crimson, lingered in the
west, and threw a reddish tint upon the pine
forests, which sent forth a solemn sound, as
the breeze rolled over them. The hollow
moan struck upon Emily's heart, and served
to render more gloomy and terrific every
object around her, — the mountains, shaded
in twilight — the gleaming torrent, hoarsely
roaring — the black forests, and the deep
glen, broken into rocky recesses, high over-
shadowed by cypress and sycamore, and
winding into long obscurity. To this glen,
Emily, as she sent forth her anxious eye^
thought there was no end ; no hamlet, or
even cottage, was seen, and still no distant
bark of watch-dog, or even faint, far-off
halloo came on the wind. In a tremulous-
voice, she now ventured to remind the
guides, that it was growing late, and to ask
again how far they had to go : but they were
too much occupied by their own discourse
to attend to her question, which she forbore
to repeat, lest it should provoke a surly an-
swer. Having, however, soon after, finished
their supper, the men collected the frag-
ments into then* wallet, and proceeded along
this winding glen, in gloomy silence ; while
Emily again mused upon her own situation,
and concerning the motives of Montoni for
involving her in it. That it was for some
evil purpose towards herself, she could not
doubt 5 and it seemed, that, if he did not in-
tend to destroy her, with a view of imme-
diately seizing her estates, he meant to re-
serve her awhile in concealment, for some
more terrible design, for one that might
equally gratify his avarice and still more hi»
deep revenge. At this moment, remembering
Signor Brochio and his behaviour in the cor-
ridor a few preceding nights, the latter sup-
position, horrible as it was, strengthened in
her belief. Yet, why remove her from the
castle, where deeds of darkness had, she
feared, been often executed with secrecy ' —
from chambers perhaps

" With many a foul and midnight murder stain'd.

The dread of what she might be going to
encounter was now so excessive, that it
sometimes threatened her senses 5 and ofteu
as she went, she thought of her late father
and of all he would have suffered, could he
have foreseen the strange and dreadful

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

1<>3

«vt>n(s of her future life ; and how anxiously
he would have avoided that fatal confidence,
which committed his daughter to the care of
a woman so weak as was Madame Montoni.
So romantic and improbable, indeed, did
her present situation appear to Emily her-
self, particularly when she compared it with
the repose and beauty of her early days,
that there were moments when she could
a.most have believed herself the victim of
frightful visions, glaring upon a disordered
fancy.

Restrained by the presence of her guides
from expressing her terrors, their acuteness
was, at length, lost in gloomy despair. The
dreadful view of what might await her
hereafter rendered her almost indifferent to
the surrounding dangers. She now looked,
with little emotion, on the wild dingles and
the gloomy road and mountains, whose out-
lines only were distinguishable through the
dusk 5 — objects, which but lately had affec-
ted her spirits so much, as to awaken hor-
rid views of the future, and to tinge these
with their own gloom.

It was now so nearly dark, that the tra-
vellers, who proceeded only by the slowest
pace, could scarcely discern their way. The
clouds, which seemed charged with thunder,
oassed slowly along the heavens, showing,
7it intervals, the trembling stars ; while the
proves of cypress and sycamore, that over-
hung the rocks, waved high in the breeze as
it swept over the glen, and then rushed
among the distant woods. Emily shivered
as it passed.

"Where is the torch?" said Ugo> " it
grows dark."

"Not so dark yet," replied Bertrand,
" but we may find our way, and His best not
light the torch before we can help, for it
may betray us, if any straggling party of the
enemy is abroad."

Ugo muttered something which Emily did
not understand, and they proceeded in dark-
ness, while she almost wished that the enemy
might discover them ; for from change there
was something to hope, since she could
scarcely imagine any situation more dreadful
than her present one.

As they moved slowly along, her atten-
tion was surprised by a thin tapering flame,
that appeared, by fits, at the point of the
pike, which Bertrand carried, resembling
what she had observed on the lance of the
sentinel the night Madame Montoni died,
and which he had said was an omen. The
event immediately following, it appeared to
justify the assertion, and a superstitious im-
pression had remained on Emily's mind,
which the present appearance confirmed.
She thought t was an omen of her own fate,
and watched it successively vanish and re-
turn, in gloomy silence, which was at length
interrupted by Bertrand.

" Let us light the torch, " said he, '• and
get under shelter of the woods;— a storm is
coming on— look at my lance."

He held it forth, with the flame tapering
at its point*.

" Aye," said Ugo, "yo» are not one of
those that believe in omens : we have left
cowards at the castle, who would turn pale
at such a sight. I have often seen it before
'a thunder storm, it is an omen of that, and
one is coming now, sure enough. The
clouds flash fast already."

Emily was relieved by this conversation
from some of the terrors of superstition 5 but
those of reason increased, as, waiting while
Ugo searched for a flint to strike a fire, she
watched the pale lightning gleam over the
woods they were about to enter, and illumine
the harsh countenances of her companions.
Ugo could not find a flint, and Bertrand be
came impatient, for the thunder sounded
hollowly at a distance, and the lightning was
more frequent Sometimes, it revealed the
nearest recesses of the woods, or, displaying
some opening in their summits, illumined
the ground beneath with partial splendour,
the thick foliage of the trees preserving the
surrounding scene in deep shadow.

At length, Ugo found a flinty and the torch
was lighted. The men then dismounted,
and, having assisted Emily, led the mules
towards the woods, that skirted the glen, on
the left, over broken ground, frequently in-
terrupted with bru°h-wood and wild plants,
which she was often obliged to make a cir-
cuit to avoid.

She could not approach these woods, with-
out experiencing keener sense of her danger.
Their deep silence, except when the wind
swept among their branches, and impenetra-
ble glooms shewn partially by the sudden
flash, and then, by the red glare of the torch,
which served only to make " darkness visi-
ble," were circumstances that contributed
to renew all her most terrible apprehensions ;
she thought, too, that, at this moment, the
countenances of her conductors displayed
more than theii usual fierceness, mingled
with a kind of lurking exultation, which
they seemed endeavouring to disguise. To
her affrighted fancy it occurred, that they
were leading her into these woods to com-
plete the will of Montoni by her murder
The horrid suggestion called a groan from
her heart, which surprised her companions,
who turned round quickly towards her, and
she demanded why they led her thither
beseeching them to* continue their way along
the open glen, which she represented to be
less dangerous than the woods in a thunder-
storm.

"No, no," said Bertrand, "we know best
where the danger lies. See how the clouds
open over our heads. Besides, we can glide

* Sec the AM** Bcrthelon on ElectricHy.

200

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLFHO.

under cover of the woods with less hazard
of being seen, should any of the enemy be
wandering this Way. By holy St. Peter and
all the rest of them, I've as stoat a heart as
the best, as many a poor devil could tell, if
he were alive agaiib-»~but what can we do
against numbers ?"

" What are you whining about ?" said
Ugof contemptuously, "who fears numbers !
Let them come, though they were as many
as the signor's castle could hold ; I would
shew the knaves what fighting is. For you

1 would lay you quietly in a dry ditch,

where you might peep out, and see me put
the rogues to flight. — Who talks of fear !"

Bertrand replied with an horribleoath, that
he did not like such jesting, and a violent alter-
cation ensued, which was, at length, silenced
by the thunder, whose deep volley was heard
afar, rolling onward till it burst over their
heads in sounds, that seemed to shake the
earth to its centre. The ruffians paused,
and looked upon each other. Between the
boles of the trees, the blue lightning flashed
and quivered along the ground, while, as
Emily looked under the boughs, the moun-
tains beyond frequently appeared to be clo-
thed in livid flame, At this moment, per-
haps, she felt less fear of the storm, than did
either of her companions, for other terrors
occupied her mind.

The men now rested under an enormous
chesnut-tree, and fixed their pikes in the
ground at some distance, on the iron points
of which Emily repeatedly observed the
lightning play, and then glide down them
into the earth.

" I would we were well in the signor's
castle !" said Bertrand, " I know not why
he should send us on this business. Hark !
how it rattles above there ! I could almost
find in my heart to turn priest, and pray.
Ugo, hast got a rosary?"

" No" replied Ugo, " I leave it to cowards
like thee, to carry rosaries— I carry a sword."

" And much good may it do thee in fight-
ing against the storm!" said Bertrand.

Another peal, which was reverberated in
tremendous echoes among the mountains,
silenced then* for a moment. As it rolled
away, Ugo pioposed going on. " We are
only losing time here," said he, " for the
thick boughs of the woods will shelter us as
well as this chesnut-tree."

They again led the mules forward, between
the boles of the trees, and over pathless
grass that concealed their high knotted roots.
The rising wind was now heard contending
with the thunder, as it rushed furiously
among the branches above, and brightened
the red flame of the torch, which threw a
stronger light forward among the woods, and
shewed their gloomy recesses to be suitable
resorts for the wolves of which Ugo had
formerly spoken.

Atleugth, the strength of the wind seemei
to drive the storm before it, for the thunder
rolled away into distance, and was only
faintly heard. After travelling through the
woods for nearly an hour, during which the
elements seemed to have returned to repose,
the travellers, gradually ascending from the
glen, found themselves upon the open brow
of a mountain, with a wide valley extending
in misty moon-light at their feet, and above,
the blue sky trembling through the few thin
clouds that lingered after the storm, and
were sinking slowly* to the verge of the
horizon.

Emily's spirits, now that she had quitted
the woods, began to revive ; for she con-
sidered, that if these men had received an
order to destroy her, they would probably
have executed their barbarous purpose in the
solitary wild, from whence they had just
emerged, where the deed would have been
shrouded from every human eye. Re-assured
by this reflection* and by the quiet demea-
nour of her guides, Emily, as they proceeded
silently, in a kind of sheep track, that wound
along the skirts of the woods, which ascen-
ded on the right, could not survey the
sleeping beauty of the vale, to which they
were declining, without a momentary sen-
sation of pleasure. It seemed varied with
woods, pastures, and sloping grounds, and
was screened to the north and the east by an
amphitheatre of the Apennines, whose
outline on the horizon was here broken into
varied and elegant forms ; to the west and
the south, the landscape extended indistinctly
into the low lands of Tuscany.

" There is the sea yonder," said Bertrand,
as if he had known that Emily was exa-
mining the twilight view, "yonder in the
west, though we cannot see it."

Emily already perceived a change in the
climate, from that of the wild and moun-
tainous tract she had left" 5 and as she con-
tinued descending, the air became perfumed
by the breath of a thousand nameless flowers
among the grass, called forth by the late
rain. So soothingly beautiful was the scene
around her, and so strikingly contrasted to
the gloomy grandeur of those to which she
had long been confi^d, and to the manners
of the people, who moved among them, that
she could almost have fancied herself again
at La Vallee, and, wondering why Montoui
had sent her hither, could scarcely believe
that he had selected so enchanting a spot
for any cruel design. It was, however,
probably not the spot, but the persons, who
happened to inhabit it, and to whose care
he could safely commit the execution of his
plans, whatever they might be» that had de-
termined his choice.

She now ventured again to inquire, whe-
ther they were near the place of their des-
tination, and was answered by Ugo, that they

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

201

had not far to go. " Only to the wood of
cliesnuts in the valley yonder," said he,
4t there, by the brook, that sparkles with the
moon -, I wish I was once at rest there, with
a flask of good wine> and a slice of Tuscany
bacon."

Emily's spirits revived, when she heard
that the journey was so nearly concluded,
and saw the wood of chesnuts in an open
part of the vale, on the margin of the
stream.

In a short time they reached the entrance
fcf the wood, and perceived, between the
winkling leaves, a light streaming from a
distant cottage-window. They proceeded
along the edge of the brook to where the
trees, crowding over it, excluded the moon-
beams 5 but along line of light, from the
cottage above, was seen on its dark tre-
mulous surface. Bertrand now stepped on
first, and Emily heard him knock, and call
loudly at the door. As she reached it, the
small upper casement, where the light ap-
peared, was unclosed by a man, who, having
enquired what they wanted, immediately
descended, let them into a neat rustic cot,
and called up his wife to set refershments
before the travellers. As this man con-
versed, rather apart, with Bertrand, Emily
anxiously surveyed him. He was a tall, but
not a robust peasant, of a sallow complexion,
and had a shrewd and cunning eye ; his
countenance was not of a character to win
the ready confidence of youth, and there was
nothing in his manner that might conciliate
a stranger.

Ugo called impatiently for supper, and in
a tone as if he knew his authority here to be
unquestionable. " I expected you an hour
ago," said the peasant, " for I have had
Signor Montoni's letter these three hours,
and I and my wife had given you up, and
gone to bed. How did you fare in the
storm ?" 0

" 111 enough," replied Ugo, ill enough,
and we are like to fare ill enough here, too,
unless you will make more haste. Get us
more wine, and let us see what you have to
cat."

The peasant placed before them all that
his cottage afforded — ham, wine, figs, and
grapes of such size and flavour, as Emily
had seldom tasted.

After taking refreshment, she was shewn
by the peasant's wife to her little bed-
chamber, where she asked some questions
concerning Montoni, to which the woman,
whose name was Dorina, gave reserved an-
swers, pretending ignorance of his excel-
lenzcfs intention in sending Emily hither,
but acknowledging that her husband had
been apprised of the circumstance. Per-
ceiving that she could obtain no intelligence
concerning her destination, Emily dismissed
Dorina, and retired to repose ; but all the

busy scenes of the past and the anticipated
ones of the future came to her anxious
mind, and conspired with the sense of her
new situation to banish sleep.

CHAP. XXXII.

*4 Was nought around but images of rest,
Sleep-soothing groves and quiet lawns between,
And flowery beds that slumb'rous influence kest,
From poppies breath'd, and banks of pleasant

green,
Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
Meantime uunumbered glittering streamlets play'd,
And hurled everywhere their water's sheen,
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur

made."

THOMSOxN.

When Emily, in the morning, opened
her casement, she was surprised to observe
the beauties that surrounded it. The cot-
tage was nearly embowered in the woods,
which were chiefly of chesnut, intermixed
with some cypress, larch, and sycamore.
Beneath the dark and spreading branches,
appeared to the north and to the east the
woody Apennines, rising in majestic am-
phitheatre, not black with pines, as she had
been accustomed to see them, but their
loftiest summits crowned with ancient forests
of chesnut, oak, and oriental plane, now
animated with the rich tints of autumn,
and which swept downward to the valley
uninterruptedly, except where some bold
rocky promontory looked out from among
the foliage, and caught the passing gleam.
Vineyards stretched along the feet of the
mountains, where the elegant villas of the
Tuscan nobility frequently adorned the
scene, and overlooked slopes clothed with
groves of olive, mulberry, orange, and lemon.
The plain to which these declined, was
coloured with the riches of cultivation,
whose mingled hues were mellowed into
harmony by an Italian sun. Vines, their
purple clusters blushing between the russet
foliage, hung in luxuriant festoons from the
branches of standard fig and cherry trees,
while pastures of verdure, such as Emily
had seldom seen in Italy, enriched the banks
of a stream that, after descending from
the mountains, wound along the landscape,
which it reflected, to a bay of the sea,
There, far in the west, the waters, fading
into the sky, assumed a tint of the faintest
purple, and the line of separation between
them was, now and then, discernible only
by the progress of a sail, brightened with
the sun-beam, along the horizon.

The cottage, which was shaded by the
woods from the intenser rays of the sun,
and was open only to his evening light,
was covered entirely with vines, fig-trees,
and jessamine, whose flowers surpassed in
size and fragrance any that Emily had
seen. These and ripening clusters of grapes
hung round her little casement. The turf,

202

THE MYSTEftlES OF 1/0OLPMO

that grew under the woods, was inlaid with
a variety of wild flowers and perfumed herbs,
and on the opposite margin of the stream,
whose current diffused freshness beneath
the shades, rose a grove of lemon and orange
trees. This, though nearly opposite to
Emily's window, did not interrupt her
prospect, but rather heightened, by its dark
verdure, the effect of the perspective ; and
to her this spot was a bower of sweets,
whose charms communicated imperceptibly
to her mind somewhat of their own serenity.

She was soon summoned to breakfast by
the peasant's daughter, a girl about seven-
teen, of a pleasant countenance, which,
Emily was glad to observe, seemed ani-
mated with the pure affections of nature,
though the others, that surrounded her, ex-
pressed, more or less, the worst qualities —
cruelty, ferocity, cunning, and duplicity;
of the latter style of countenance, espe-
cially, were those of the peasant and his
wife. Maddelina spoke little, but what she
said was in a soft voice, and with an air
of modesty and complacency that interested
Emily, who breakfasted at a separate table
with Dorina, while Ugo and Bertrand were
taking a repast of Tuscany bacon and wine
with their host, near the cottage door,
when they had finished which, Ugo, rising
hastily, enquired for his mule, and Emily
learned that he was to return to Udolpho,
while Bertrand remained at the cottage;
a circumstance, which, though it did not
surprise, distressed her.

When Ugo was departed, Emily proposed
to walk in the neighbouring woods ; but, on
being told that she must not quit the cot-
tage without having Bertrand for her atten-
dant, she withdrew to her own room. There,
as her eyes settled on the towering Apen-
nines, she recollected the terrific scenery
they had exhibited, and the horrors she had
suffered on the preceding night, particularly
ai the moment when Bertrand had betrayed
himself to be an assassin ; and these remem-
brances awakened a train of images, which,
since they abstracted her from a consider-
ation of her own situation, she pursued for
some time, and then arranged in the follow-
ing lines ; pleased to have discovered any
innocent means by which she could beguile
an hour of misfortune.

THE PILGRIM."

Slow o'er the Apennine, with bleeding feet,
A patient Pilgrim wound his lonely way,
To deck the lady of Loretto's seat
With all the little wealth his zeal could pay.
From mountain- tops cold died the evening- ray,
And stretch'd in twilight slept the vale below;
And now the last, last purple streaks of day
Along the melancholy west fade slow.

# This poem, and that entitled The Traveller, in
a preceding page, have already appeared in a perio-
dical publication.

High o'er his head the restless pines complain,
As on their summit rolls the breeze of night ,
Beneath, the hoarse stream chides the rocks in vain
The Pilgrim pauses on the dizzy height.
Then to the vale his cautious step he press'd,
For there a hermit's cross was dimly seen,
Cresting the rock, and there his limbs might rest,
Cheer'd in the good man's cave, by faggot's sheen,
On leafy beds, nor guile his sleep molest.
Unhappy Luke ! he trusts a treacherous clue!
Behind the cliff the lurking robber stood !
No friendly moon his giant shadow threw
Athwart the road, to save the Pilgrim's blood ,
On as he went a vesper hymn he sang,
The hymn, that nightly sooth'd him to repose.
Fierce on his harmless prey the ruffian sprang !
The Pilgrim bleeds to death, his eye-lids close.
Yet his meek spirit knew no vengeful care,
But, dying, for his murd'rer breath'd — a sainted
pray'r!

Preferring the solitude of her room to the
company of the persons below stairs, Emily
dined above, and Maddelina w'as suffered to
attend her, from whose simple conversation
she learned, that the peasant and his wife
were old inhabitants of this cottage, which
had been purchased for them by Montoni,
in reward of some service, rendered him,
many years before, by Marco, to whom
Carlo, the steward at the castle, was nearly
related. "So many years ago, signora,"
added Maddelina, "that I know nothing
about it ; but my father did the signor a
great good, for my mother has often said to
him, this cottage was the least he ought to
have had."

To the mention of this circumstance
Emily listened with a painful interest, since
it appeared to give a frightful colour to the
character of Marco, whose service, thus re-
warded by Montoni, she could scarcely
doubt had bten criminal ; and, if so, had
too much reason to believe, that she had
been committed into his hands for some
desperate purpose. "Did you ever hear
how many years it is," said Emily, who
was considering of Signora Laurentini's
disappearance from Udolpho, " since your
father performed the service you spoke of?"

"It was a little before he came to live at
the cottage, signora," replied Maddelina,
" and that is about eighteen years ago."

This was near the period, when Signora
Laurentini had been said to disappear, and
it occurred to Emily that Marco had as-
sisted in that mysterious affair, and, per-
haps, had been employed in a murder !
This horrible suggestion fixed her in such
profound reverie, that Maddelina quitted
the room unperceived by her, and she
remained unconscious of all around her
for a considerable time. Tears, at length,
came to her relief, after indulging which,
her spirits becoming calmer, she ceased to
tremble at a view of evils that might
never arrive ; and had sufficient resolu-
tion to endeavour to withdraw her thoughts
from the contemplation of her own in-
terests. Remembering the few books which

Tttfc MYSTERIES 0£ UDOLFMO.

?03

even in the hurry of her departure from
Udolpho she had put into her little package,
she sat down with one of them at her plea-
sant casement, whence her eyes often
wandered from the page to the landscape,
whose beauty gradually soothed her mind
into gentle melancholy.

Here she remained alone till evening, and
saw the sun descend the western sky,
through all his pomp of light and shadow
upon the mountains, and gleam upon the
distant ocean and the stealing sails, as he
sunk amidst the waves. Then at the mu-
sing hour of twilight, her softened thoughts
returned to Valancourt ; she again recol-
leted every circumstance connected with
the midnight music, and all that might
assist her conjecture concerning his im-
prisonment at the castle, and, becoming con-
firmed in the supposition, that it was his
voice she had heard there, she looked back
to that gloomy abode with emotions of grief
and momentary regret.

Refreshed by the cool and fragrant air,
and her spirits soothed to a state of gentle
melancholy by the still murmur of the
brook below and of the woods around, she
lingered at her casement long after the sun
had set, watching the valley sinking into
obscurity, till only the grand outline of the
surrounding mountains shadowed upon
the horizon, remained visible. But a clear
moon-light, that succeeded, gave to the
landscape what time gives to the scenes
of past life, when it softens all their harsher
features, and throws over the whole the
mellowing shade of distant contemplation.
The scenes of La Vallee, in the early
morn of her life, when she was protected
and beloved by parents equally loved, ap-
peared in Emily's memory tenderly beauti-
ful, like the prospect before her, and
awakened mournful comparisons.. Unwil-
ling to encounter the coarse behaviour of
the peasant's wife, she remained supperless
in her room, while she wept again over
her forlorn and perilous situation, a review
of which entirely overcame the small re-
mains of her fortitude, and, reducing her
to temporary despondence, she wished to
be released from this heavy load of life
that had so long oppresed her, and prayed
to Heaven to take her, in its mercy, to her
parents.

Wearied with weeping, she, at length,
lay down on her mattress, and sunk to
sleep, but was soon awakened by a knock-
ing at her chamber-door, and starting up
in terror, she heard a voice calling her.
The image of Bertrand, with a stiletto in
his hand, appeared to her alarmed fancy,
and she neither opened the door or an
swered, but listened in profound silence,
till, the voice repeating her name in the

same low tone, she demanded who Called .
" It is I, signora," replied the voice, which
she now distinguished to be Maddelina's,
" pray open the door. — Don't be frightened
it is I."

" And what brings you here so late,
Maddelina ?" said Emily, as she let her in.
** Hush ! signora, for heaven's sake hush ?
— if we are overheard I shall never be for-
given. My father and mother and Ber-
trand are all gone to bed, continued Mad-
delina, as she gently shut the door, and
crept forward, "and I have brought you
some supper, for you had none, you know,
signora, below stairs. Here are some
grapes and figs and half a cup of wine.'*
Emily thanked her, but expressed appre-
hension lest this kindness should draw
upon her the resentment of Dorina, when
she perceived the fruit was gone. c« Take
it back, therefore, Maddelina," added
Emily, " I shall suffer much less from the
want of it, than I should do, if this act of
good-nature was to subject you to your
mother's displeasure."

" O signora ! there is no danger of that,'*
replied Maddelina, "my mother cannot
miss the fruit, for I saved it from my own
supper. You will make me very unhappy,
if you refuse to take it, signora." Emily
was so much affected by this instance of
the good gill's generosity, that she re-
mained for some time unable to reply, and
Maddelina watched her in silence, till, mis-
taking the cause of her emotion, she said,
" Do not weep so, signora ! My mother,
to be sure, is a little cross, sometimes, but
then it is soon over, — so don't take it so
much to heart. She often scolds me, too ;
but then I have learned to bear it 5 and,
when she has done, if I can but steal out into
the woods, and play upon my sticcado, I
forget it all directly."

Emily, smiling through her tears, told
Maddelina, that she was a good girl, and
then accepted her offering. She wished
anxiously to know whether Bertrand and
Dorina had spoken of Montoni, or of his
designs concerning herself, in the presence
of Maddelina, but disdained to tempt the
innocent girl to a conduct so mean, as that
of betraying the private conversation of her
parents. When she was departing, Emily
requested that she would come to her room
as often as she dared without offending
her mother; and Maddelina, after pro-
mising that she would do so, stole softly
back again to her own chamber.

Thus several days passed, during which
Emily remained in her own room, Mad-
delina attending her only at her repast,
whose gentle countenance and manners
soothed her more than any circumstance
he had known for many months. Of her

eo4'

THE MYSTERIES OF UEOLPHO

pleasant embowered chamber she now be-
came fond, and began to experience in it
those feelings of security, which we natu-
rally attach to home. In this interval also,
her mind having been undisturbed by
any new circumstance of diagust, or alarm,
recovered its tone sufficiently to permit her
the enjoyment of her books, among which
she found some unfinished sketches of land-
scapes, several blank sheets of paper, with
her drawing instruments, and she was thus
enabled to amuse herself with selecting
some of the lovely features of the prospect
that her window commanded, and com-
bining them in scenes, to which her taste-
ful fancy gave a last grace. In these little
sketches she generally placed interesting
groups, characteristic of the scenery they
animated, and often contrived to tell,
with perspicuity, some simple and affecting
story, when, as a tear fell over the pic-
tured grief which her imagination drew,
she would forget, for a moment, her real
sufferings. Thus innocently she beguiled
the heavy hours of misfortune, and, with
meek patience, awaited the events of fu-
turity.

A beautiful evening, that had succeeded
to a sultry day, at length induced Emily to
walk, though she knew that Bertrand must
attend her, and with Maddelina for her com-
panion, she left the cottage, followed by
Bertrand, who allowed her to choose her
own way. The hour was cool and silent,
and she could not look upon the country
around her without delight. How lovely
too, appeared the brilliant blue that colour-
ed all the upper region of the air, and,
thence fading downward, was lost in the
saffron glow of the horizon ! Nor less so
were the varied shades and warm colouring
of the Apennines, as the evening sun threw
his flaming rays athwart their broken sur-
face. Emily followed the course of the
stream, under the shades that overhung its
grassy margin. On the opposite banks the
pastures were animated with herds of
cattle of a beautiful cream-colour; and,
beyond, were groves of lemon and orange,
with fruit glowing on the branches, frequent
almost as the leaves, which partly concealed
it. She pursued her way towards the sea,
which reflected the warm glow of sun-set,
while the cliffs, that rose over its edge,
were tinted with the last rays. The valley
was terminated on the right by a lofty, pro-
montory, whose summit, impending over
the waves, was crowned with a ruined
tower, now serving for the purpose of a
beacon, whose shattered battlements, and
the extended wings of some sea-fowl that
circled near it, were still illumined by the
upward beams of the sun, though his

disk was now sunk beneath the horizon mT
while the lower part of the ruin, the
cliff on which it stood, and the waves at
its foot, were shaded with the first tints of
twilight.

Having reached this headland, Emily
gazed with solemn pleasure on the cliffs
that extended on either hand along the se-
questered shores, some crowned with groves
of pine, and others exhibiting only barren
precipices of a greyish marble, except
where the crags were tufted with myrtle
and other aromatic shrubs. The sea slept
in a perfect calm ; its waves dying in mur-
murs on the shores, flowed with the gen-
tlest undulation, while its clear surface
reflected in softened beauty the vermeil
tints of the west. Emily,, as she looked
upon the ocean, thought of France and
of past times, and she wished, oh! how
ardently, and vainly— wished ! that its waves
would bear her to her distant native home !

" Ah ! that vessel," said she, " that
vessel, which glides along so stately, with
its tall sails reflected in the water, is, per-
haps bound for France! Happy — happy
bark!" She continued to gaze upon it,
with warm emotion, till the grey of twi-
light obscured the distance, and veiled it
from her view. The melancholy sound of
the waves at her feet assisted the tender-
ness that occasioned her tears, and this
was the only sound that broke upon the
hour, till, having followed the windings
of the beach for some time, a chorus of
voices passed her on the air. She paused
a moment, wishing to hear more, yet fear-
ing to be seen, and, for the first time, look-
ed back to Bertrand, as her protector, who
was following, at a short distance, in com-
pany with some other person. Re-assured
by this circumstance, she advanced towards
the sounds, which seemed to arise from be-
hind a high promontory, that projected
athwart the beach. There was now a
sudden pause in the music, and then one
female voice was heard to sing in a kind ot
chant. Emily quickened her steps, and
winding round the rock, saw, within the
sweeping bay, beyond, which was hung
with woods from the borders of the beach
to the very summit of the cliffs, two
groups of peasants, one seated beneath the
shades, and the other standing on the edge
of the sea, round the girl who was sing-
ing, and who held in her hand a chaplet of
flowers, which she seemed about to drop
into the waves.

Emily, listening with surprise and atten-
tion, distinguished the following invocation,
delivered in the pure and elegant tongue of
Tuscany, and accompanied by a few pas-
toral instruments.

TO A SEA-NYMPH.

O nymph l who lov'st to float on the green wave,
When Neptune sleeps beneath the moon-light hour,
Lull'd by the music's melancholy pow'r,
O nymph, arise from out thy pearly cave I

For Hesper beams amid the twilight shade,
And soon shall Cynthia tremble o'er the tiae,
Gleam on these cliffs, that bound the ocean's pride,
And lonely silence all the air pervade.

Then, let thy tender voices at distance swell,
And steal along this solitary shore,
Sink on the breeze, till dying — heard no more—
Thou wak'st the sudden magic of thy shell.

While the long coast in echo sweet replies,
Thy soothing strains the pensive heart beguile,
And bid the vision of the future smile,
O nymph 1 from out thy pearly cave — arise

(Chorus) Arise !
(Semi-chorus) Arise !

The last words being repeated by the sur-
rounding group, the garland of flowers was
thrown, into the waves, and the chorus, sink-
ing gradually into a chant, died away in
silence.

" What can this mean, Maddelina ?" said
Emily, awakening from the pleasing trance
into which the music had lulled her. "This
is the eve of a festival, signora," replied
Maddelina ; " and the peasants then amuse
themselves with all kinds of sports."

" But they talked of a sea-nymph," said
Emily : " how came these good people to
think of a sea-nymph ?"

"O, signora," rejoined Maddelina, mis-
taking the reason of Emily's surprise, " no-
body believes in such things, but our old
songs tell of them, and when we are at our

sport?, we sometimes sing to them, a»id
throw garlands into the sea."

Emily had been early taught to venerate
Florence as the seat of literature and of the
fine arts -, but, that its taste for classic story
should descend to the peasants of the coun-
try, occasioned her both surprise and admi-
ration. The Arcadian air of the girls next
attracted her attention. Then* dress v/as a
very short full petticoat of light green,
with a boddice of white silk; the sleeves
loose, and tied up at the shoulders with
ribbons and bunches of flowers. Their
air falling in ringlets on their necks, was
also ornamented with flowers, and with a
small straw hat, which, set rather back-
ward and on one side of the head, gave an
expression of gaiety and smartness to the
whole figure. When the song had concluded,
several of these girls approached Emily, and,
inviting her to sit down among them, offered
her, and Maddelina, whom they knew, grapes
and figs.

Emily accepted their courtesy, much
pleased with the gentleness and grace of
their manners, which appeared to be per-
fectly natural to them ; and when Bertrand,
soon after, approached, and was hastily
drawing her away, a peasant, holding up
a flask, invited him to drink ; a temptation
which Bertrand was seldom very valiant in
resisting.

u Let the young lady join in the dance,
my friend," said the peasant, " while we
empty this flask. They are going to begin
directly. Strike up, my lads ! strike up
your tambourines and merry flutes !"

205

206

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

They sounded gaily, and the younger
peasants formed themselves into a circle,
which Emily would readily have joined, had
her spirits been in unison with their mirth.
Maddelina, however, tripped it lightly, and
Emily, as she looked on the happy group,
lost the sense of her misfortunes in that of
a benevolent pleasure. But the pensive
melancholy of her mind returned, as she sat
rather apart from the company, listening
to the mellow music, which the breeze sof-
tened as it bore it away, and watching the
moon stealing its tremulous light over the
waves and on the woody summits of the
cliffs, that wound along these Tuscan shores.

Meanwhile Bertrand was so well pleased
with his first flask, that he very willingly
commenced the attack of a second, and it
was late before Emily, not without some
apprehension, returned to the cottage.

After this evening, she frequently walked
with Maddelina, but was never unattended
by Bertrand ; and her mind became by
degrees as tranquil as the circumstances of
her situation would permit. The quiet in
which she was suffered to live, encouraged
her to hope that she was not sent hither
with an evil design; and, had it not appeared
probable that Valancourt was at this time
an inhabitant of Udolpho, she would have
wished to remain at the cottage, till an
opportunity should offer of returning to
her native country. But, concerning Mon-
toni's motive for sending her into Tuscauy,
she was more than ever perplexed, nor
could she believe that any consideration
for her safety had influenced him on this
occasion.

She had been some time at the cottage,
before she recollected, that, in the hurry of
leaving Udolpho, she had forgotten the
papers committed to her by her late aunt,
relative to the Languedoc estates; but,
though this remembrance occasioned her
much uneasiness, she had some hope, that,
in the obscure place where they were de-
posited, they would escape the detection of
Montoni.

CHAP. XXXIII.

" My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say :

I play the torturer, by small and small,

To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken."

RICHARD II.

We now return, for a moment, to Venice,
where Count Morano was suffering under an
accumulation of misfortunes. Soon after his
arrival in that city, he had been arrested by
order of the senate, and, without knowing
of what he was suspected, was conveyed to
a place of confinement, whither the most
strenuous enquiries of his friends had been
unable to trace him. Who the enemy was,
fhat had occasioned him this calamity, he

had not been able to guess, unless, indeed,
it was Montoni, on whom his suspicions
rested, and not only with much apparent
probability, but with justice.

In the affair of the poisoned cup, Mon
toni had suspected Morano ; but, being un-
able to obtain the degree of proof which was
necessary to convict him of a guilty inten-
tion, he had recourse to means of other re-
venge, than he could hope to obtain by pro-
secution. He employed a person, in whom
he believed he might confide, to drop a let-
ter of accusation into the Denunzie secrete^
or lions' mouths, which are fixed in a gallery
of the Doge's palace, as receptacles for ano-
nymous information concerning persons who
may be disaffected towards the state. As,
on these occasions, the accuser is not con-
fronted with the accused, a man may falsely
impeach his enemy, and accomplish an un-
just revenge, without fear of punishment or
detection. That Montoni should have re-
course to these diabolical means of ruining
a person, whom he suspected of having
attempted his life, is not in the least sur-
prising. In the letter, which he had em-
ployed as the instrument of his revenge, he
accused Morano of designs against the state,
which he attempted to prove, with all the
plausible simplicity of which he was master;
and the senate, with whom a suspicion was,
at that time, almost equal to a proof, ar-
rested the count, in consequence of this ac-
cusation ; and, without even hinting to him
his crime, threw him into one of those secret
prisons, which were the terror of the Vene-
tians, and in which persons often languished,
and sometimes died, without being disco-
vered by their friends.

Morano had incurred the personal resent-
ment of many members of the state ; his ha-
bits of lrfe had rendered him obnoxious to
some ; and his ambition, and the bold rival-
ship which he discovered on several public
occasions, — to others ; and it was not to be
expected, that mercy would soften the rigour
of a law, which was to be dispensed from
the hands of his enemies.

Montoni, meantime, was beset by dangers
of another kind. His castle was besieged
by troops, who seemed willing to dare every
thing, and to suffer patiently any hardships,
in pursuit of victory. The strength of the
fortress, however, withstood their attack,
and this, with the vigorous defence of the
garrison, and the scarcity of provisions on
these wild mountains, soon compelled the
assailants to raise the siege.

When Udolpho was once more left to the
quiet possession of Montoni, he dispatched
Ugo into Tuscany for Emily, whom he had
sent, from considerations of her personal
safety, to a place of greater security than a
castle, which was, at that time, liable to be
overrun by his enemies. Tranquillity being

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

207

mice more restored to Udolpho, he was impa^
tient to secure her again under his roof, and
had commissioned Ugo to assist Bertrand in
guarding her back to the castle. Thus com-
pelled to return, Emily bade the kind Mad-
delina farewell, with regret, and, after about
a fortnight's stay in Tuscany, where she had
experienced an interval of quiet, which was
absolutely necessary to sustain her long-har ■*
rassed spirits, began once more to ascend the
Apennines, from whose heights she gave a
long and sorrowful look to the beautiful
country that extended at their feet, and to
the distant Mediterranean, whose waves she
had so often wished would bear her back to
France. The distress she felt, on her return
towards the place of her former sufferings,
was, however, softened by a conjecture, that
Valancourt was there, and she found some
degree of comfort in the thought of being-
near him, notwithstanding the consideration
that he was probably a prisoner.

It was noon, when she had left the cot-
tage, and the evening was closed, long be-
fore she came within the neighbourhood of
Udolpho. There was a moon, but it shone
only at intervals, for the night was cloudy -y
and, lighted by the torch, which Ugo car-
ried, the travellers paced silently along,
Emily musing on her situation, and Ber-
trand and Ugo anticipating the comforts of
a flask of wine and a good fire, for they had
perceived for some time the difference be-
tween the warm climate of the lowlands of
Tuscany and the nipping air of these upper
regions. Emily was, at length, roused from
her reverie by the far-off sound of the castle-
clock, to which she listened not without
some degree of awe, as it rolled away on the
breeze. Another and another note succeed-
ed, and died in sullen murmur among the
mountains : — to her mournful imagination
it seemed a knell measuring out some fatal
period for her.

" Aye, there is the old clock," said Ber-
trand, " there he is still ; the cannons have
not silenced him !*'

" No," answered Ugo, " he crowed as loud
as the best of them in the midst of it all.
There he was roaring out in the hottest fire
I have seen this many a day ! I said that
some of them would have a hit at the old
fellow, but he escaped, and the tower too."

The road winding round the base Of a
mountain, they now came within view of
the castle, which was shewn in the perspec-
tive of the valley by a gleam of moon-shine,
and then vanished in shade ; while even a
transient view of it had awakened the poig-
nancy of Emily's feelings. Its massy and
gloomy walls gave her terrible ideas of im-
prisonment and suffering : yet, as she ad-
vanced, some degree Of hope mingled with
her terror ; for, though this was certainly
the residence of Montoni, it was possibly,

also, that of Valancourt, and she could not
approach a place where he might be, with-
out experiencing somewhat of the joy of
hope.

They continued to wind along the valley,
and, soon after, she saw again the old walls
and moon-light towers rising over the woods:
the strong rays enabled her also to perceive
the ravages which the siege had made, with
the broken walls and shattered battlements ;
for they were now at the foot of the steep on
which Udolpho stood. Massy fragments
had rolled down among the woods, through
which the travellers now began to ascend,
and there mingled with the loose earth and
pieces of rock they had brought with them.
The woods, too, had suffered much from
the batteries above, for here the enemy had
endeavoured to screen themselves from the
fire of the ramparts. Many noble trees
were levelled with the ground, and others,
to a wide extent, were entirely stripped of
their upper branches. " We had better dis-
mount," said Ugo, " and lead the mules up
the hill, or we shall get into some of the
holes which the balls have left. Here are
plenty of them. Give me the torch," con-
tinued Ugo, after they had dismounted,
" and take care you don't stumble over any
thing that lies in your way, for the ground
is not yet cleared of the enemy."

" How !" exclaimed Emily, " are any of
the enemy here, then ?"

" Nay, I don't know for that, now," he
replied ; " but when I came away, 1 saw one
or two of them lying under the trees."

As they proceeded, the torch threw a
gloomy light upon the ground, and far
among the recesses of the woods ; and Emily
feared to look forward, lest some object of
horror should meet her eye. The path was
often strewu with broken heads of arrows,
and with shattered remains of armour, such
as at that period was mingled with the
lighter dress of the soldiers. " Bring the
light hither," said Bertrand ; " I have stum-
bled over something that rattles loud enough."
Ugo holding up the torch, they perceived a
steel breast-plate on the ground, which Ber-
trand raised ; and they saw that it was
pierced through, and that the lining was en-
tirely covered with blood : but upon Emily's
earnest entreaties that they would proceed,
Bertrand, uttering some joke upon the un-
fortunate person to whom it had belonged,
threw it hard upon the ground, and they
passed on.

At every step she took, Emily feared to
see some vestige of death. Coming soon
after to an opening in the woods, Bertrand
stopped to survey the ground, which was
encumbered with massy trunks and branches
of the trees, that had so lately adorned it,
and seemed to have been a spot particularly
fatal to the besiegers j for it was evident,

Site

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

from the destruction of the trees, that here
the hottest tire of the garrisou had been di-
rected. As Ugo held again forth the torch,
steel glittered between the fallen trees, the
ground beneath was covered with broken
anus, and with the torn vestments of sol-
diers, whose mangled forms Emily almost
expected to see ; and she again entreated
her companions to proceed, who were, how-
ever, too intent in their examination to re-
gard her, and she turned her eyes from this
desolated scene to the castle above, where
she observed lights gliding along the ram-
parts. Presently the castle-clock struck
twelve, and then a trumpet sounded, of which
Emily enquired the occasion.

" O ! they are only changing watch,"
replied Ugo. " 1 do not remember this
trumpet," said Emily; "it is a new cus-
tom .^ " It is only an old one revived, lady ;
we always use it in time of war. We have
sounded it at midnight ever since the place
was besieged."

" Hark!" said Emily, as the trumpet
sounded again ; and in the next moment she
heard a faint clash of arms, and then the
watch-word passed along the terrace above,
and was answered from a distant part of the
castle, after which all was again still. She
complained of cold, and begged to go on.
" Presently, lady," said Bertrand, turning
over some broken arms with the pike he
usually carried. " What have we here ?"

" Hark !" cried Emilv, " what noise was
thnt r

" What noise was it ?" said Ugo, starting
up and listening.

" Hush !" repeated Emily ; " it surely
came from the ramparts above!" and on
looking up, they perceived a light moving
along the walls, while, in the next instant,
the breeze swelling, the voice sounded louder
than before.

* Who goes yonder ?" cried a sentinel of
the castle : " speak, or it will be worse for
you." Bertrand uttered a shout of joy. —
" Ha ! my brave comrade, is it you ?" said
lie ; and he blew a shrill whistle, which sig-
nal was answered by another from the sol-
dier on watch ; and the purty then passing
forward, soon after emerged from the woods
upon the broken road that led immediately
to the castle gates, and Emily saw, with re-
newed terror, the whole of that stupendous
structure. " Alas !" said she to herself, " I
am going again into my prison !"

" Here has been warm work, by St.
Marco !" cried Bertrand, waving the torrh
over the ground ; " the balls have torn up
tlie earth here with a vengeance !"

" Aye," replied Ugo, " they were fired
from tliat redoubt yonder, and rare execu-
tion they did. The enemy made a furious
rttavk upon the great gates, but they might
Uve<> ;e>sed they could never carry it there ;

for, besides the cannon from the walls, onr
archers, on the two round towers, showered
down upon them at such a rate, that, by
holy Peter ! there was no standing it. I
never saw a better sight in my life. I laughed
till my sides ached to see how the knaves
scampered. Bertrand, my good fellow, thou
shouldst have been among them ; I warrant
thou wouldst have won the race !"

u Hah ! you are at your old tricks again,"
said Bertrand, in a surly tone. ** It is well
for thee thou art so near the castle ; thou
kuow'st I have killed my man before now."
Ugo replied only by a laugh, and then gave
some further account of the siege, to which
as Emily listened, she was struck by the
strong contrast of the present scene with that
which had so lately been acted here.

The mingled uproar of cannon, drums,
and trumpets, the groans of the conquered,
and the shouts of the conquerors, were uow
sunk into a silence so profound, that it
seemed as if death had triumphed alike over
the vanquished and the victor. The shatter-
ed condition of one of the towers of the
great gates by no means confirmed the
valiant account just given by Ugo of the
scampering party, who, it was evident, had
not only made a stand, but had done much
mischief before they took to flight; for this
tower appeared, as far as Emily could judge,
by the dim moon-light that fell upon it, to
be laid open, and the battlements were near-
ly demolished. While she gazed, a light
glimmered through one of the lower hoop-
holes, and disappeared ; but, in the next
moment, she perceived through the broken
wall a soldier, with a lamp, ascending the
narrow staircase, that wound within the
tower, and remembering that it was the
same she had passed up, on the night when
Barnardine had deluded her with a pro
mise of seeing Madame Montoni, fancy
gave her somewhat of the terror she had
then suffered. She was now very near the
gates, over which the soldier having opened
the door of the portal-chamber, the lamp he
carried gave her a dusky view of that terri-
ble apartment, and she almost sunk under
the recollected horrors of the moment, when
she had drawn aside the curtain, and dis-
covered the object it was meant to conceal.

" Perhaps," said she to herself, " it is
now, used for a similar purpose ; perhaps,
that soldier goes, at this dead hour, to watch
over the corpse of his friend !" The little
remains of her fortitude now gave way to
the united force of remembered and anti-
cipated horrors, for the melancholy fate of
Madame Montoni appeared to foretel her
own. She considered, that, though the Lan-
guedoc estates, if she relinquished them,
would satisfy Moutoni's avarice, they might
not appease his vengeance, which was sel
dom pacified but by a terrible sacrifice;

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

soi

and she even thought, that, were she to
resign them, the fear of justice might urge
him ertb/r to detain her a prisoner, or to
take away her life.

They were now arrived at the gates,
where Bertrand, observing the light glim-
mer through a small casement of the por-
tal-chamber, called aloud ; and the soldier,
looking out, demanded who was there. —
u Here, I have brought you a prisoner,"
said Ugo, u open the gate, "and let us in."

" Tell me first who it is that demands
entrance," replied the soldier. u What !
my old comrade," cried Ugo, don't you
know me ? not know Ugo ? I have brought
home a prisoner here, bound hand and
foot— a fellow who has been drinking Tus-
cany wine, while we here have been
fighting."

"You will not rest till you meet with
your match," said Bertrand sullenly. u Hah !
my comrade, is it you?" said the soldier—
• I will be with you directly."

Emily presently heard his steps descend-
ing the stairs within, and then the heavy
chain fall, and the bolts undraw of a small
postern door, which he opened to admit the
party. He held the lamp low, to shew the
step of the gate, and she found herself once
more beneath the gloomy arch, and heard
the door close, that seemed to shut her from
the world for ever. In the next moment
she was in the first court of the castle, where
she surveyed the spacious and solitary area
with a kind of calm despair ; while the dead
hour of the night, the gothic gloom of the
surrounding buildings, and the hollow and
imperfect echoes which they returned, as
Ugo and the soldier conversed together, as-
sisted to increase the melancholy forebodings
of her heart. Passing on to the second
conrt, a distant sound broke feebly on the
silence, and gradually swelling louder, as
they advanced, Emily distinguished voices
of revelry and laughter ; but they were to
her far other than sounds of joy. u Why,
you have got some Tuscany wine among
you here," said Bertrand, " if one may judge
by the uproar that is going forward. Ugo
has taken a larger share of that than of
fighting, Til be sworn. Who is carousing
it this late hour ?"

" His excellenza and the signors," replied
the soldier. u It is a sign you are a stran-
ger at the castle, or you would not need to
ask the question. They are brave spirits
that do without sleep— they generally pass
the night in good cheer j— would that we,
who keep the watch, had a tittle of it \ It
is cold work, pacing the ramparts so many
hours of die night, if one has no good liquor
to warm one's heart .**

" Courage, my lad, courage ought to
warm your heart," said Ugo. " Courage !"'
replied the soldier tharply, with a menacing

air, which Ugo perceiving, prevented his
saying more, by returning to the subject of
the carousal. u This is a new custom," said
he ; u when I left the castle, the signora used
to sit up counselling."

"Ay, and for that matter, carousing
too," said Bertrand ; u but since the siege,
they have done nothing but make merry ;
and if I was they, I would settle accounts
with myself for all my hard fighting, the
same way."

They had now crossed the second court,
and reached the hall door, when the soldier,
bidding them good-night, hastened back to
his post ; and, while they waited for admit-
tance, Emily considered how she mizht
avoid seeing Montoni, and retire unnotieed
to her former apartment ; for she shrunk
from the thought of encountering either
him, or any of his party, at this hour. The
uproar within the castle was now so loud,
that, though Ugo knocked repeatedly at the
hall-door, he was not heard by any of the
servants 5 a circumstance which increased
Emily's alarm, while it allowed her time to
deliberate on the means of retiring unob-
served : for, though she might, perhaps,
pas> up the great staircase unseen, it was
impossible she could find the way to her
chamber without a light ; the difficulty of
procuring which, and the danger of wander-
ing about the castle without one, immedi-
ately struck her. Bertrand had only a torch,
=he knew that the servants never brought
a taper to tne door, for the hall was suffi-
ciently lighted by the large tripod lamp,
which hung in the vaulted roof; and, while
she should wait till Annette could bring a
taper, Montoni, or some of his companion*,
might discover her.

The door was now opened by Carlo ; and
EmOy, having requested him to send An-
nette immediately with a light to tne great
gallery, where she determined to await her,
passed on with hasty steps towards the stair-
case; while Bertrand and Ugo, with the
torch, followed old Carlo to the servants'
hall, impatient for supper, and the warm
blaze of a wood fire. Emily, lighted only
by the feeble rays which the lamp above
threw between the arches of this extensive
hall, endeavoured to find her way to the
staircase, now hid in obscurity; while
shouts of merriment that burst from a re-
mote apartment served, by heightening her
terror, to increase her perplexity, and she
expected every instant to see the door of
that room open, and Monto.i and his com-
panions issue forth. Having, at length,
reached the staircase, and found her way to
the top, she seated herself on the last stab-
to await the arrival of Annette ; for the pro-
found darkness of the gallery deterred hei
from proceeding further; and, while she
ned for her footstep, she heaid onlv du

•no

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

tant sounds of revelry, which rose in sullen
echoes from among the arcades below.—
Once she thought she heard a low sound
from the dark gallery behind her, and, turn-
ing her eyes, fancied she saw something lu-
minous move in it ; and, since she could
not, at this moment, subdue the weakness
that caused her fears, she quitted her seat,
and crept softly down a few stairs lower.

Annette not yet appearing, Emily now
concluded that she was gone to bed, and
that nobody chose to call her up ; and the
prospect that presented itself of passing the
night in darkness in this place, or in some
other equally forlorn, (for she knew it would
be impracticable to find her way through
the intricacies of the galleries to her cham-
ber,) drew tears of mingled terror and de-
spondency from her eyes.

While thus she sat, she fancied she heard
again an odd sound from the gallery, and
she listened, scarcely daring to breathe, but
the increasing voices below overcame every
Other sound. Soon after, she heard Mon-
toni and his companions burst into the hall,
who spoke as if they were much intoxicated,
and seemed to be advancing towards the
staircase. She now remembered that they
must come this way to their chambers ; and,
forgetting all the terrors of the gallery, hur-
ried towards it with an intention of secret-
ing herself in some of the passages that
opened beyond, and of endeavouring, when
the signors were retired, to find her way to
her own room, or to that of Annette, which
was in a remote part of the castle.

With extended arms she crept along the
gallery, still hearing the voices of persons
below, who seemed to stop in conversation
at the foot of the staircase ; and then, paus-
ing for a moment to listen, half fearful of
going further into the darkness of the gal-
lery, where she still imagined, from the noise
she had heard, that some person was lurk-
ing— " They are already informed of my
arrival," said she, " and Montoni is coming
himself to seek me ! In the present state of
his mind, his purpose must be desperate."
Then, recollecting the scene that had passed
in the corridor, on the night preceding her
departure from the castle, " O Valancourt I*
said she, u I must then resign you for ever !
To brave any longer the injustice of Mon-
toni would not be fortitude, but rashness."
Still the vo ces below did not draw nearer,
but they became louder, and she distinguished
those of Verezzi and Bertolini above the
rest, while the few words she caught made
her listen more anxiously for others. The
conversation seemed to concern herself;
and, having ventured to step a few paces
nearer to the staircase, she discovered that
they were disputing about her, each seeming
to claim some former promise of Montoni,
who appeared, at first, inclined to appease

and to persuade them to return to their
wine, but afterwards to be weary of the dis-
pute, and, saying that he left them to settle
it as they could, was returning with the rest
of the party to the apartment he had just
quitted. Verezzi then stopped him. —
" Where is she, signor ?" said he, in a voice
of impatience ; " tell us where she is." " I
have already told you that I do not know,"
replied Montoni, who seemed to be some-
what overcome with wine ; " but she is
most probably gone to her apartment."—
Verezzi and Bertolini now desisted from
their enquiries, and sprang to the staircase
together; while Emily, who, during this dis-
course, had trembled so excessively, that she
had with difficulty supported herself, seemed
inspired with new strength the moment she
heard the bound of their steps, and ran along
the gallery, dark as it was, with the fleet-
ness of a fawn. But, long before she reached
its extremity, the light which Verezzi car-
ried flashed upon the walls •, both appeared,
and, instantly perceiving Emily, pursued
her. At this moment, Bertolini, whose
steps, though swift, were not steady, and
whose impatience overcame what little cau-
tion he had hitherto used, stumbled, and fell
at his length. The lamp fell with him, and
was presently expiring on the floor; but
Verezzi, regardless of saving it, seized the
advantage this accident gave him over his
rival, and followed Emily, to whom, how-
ever, the light had shown one of the pas-
sages that branched from the gallery, and
she instantly turned into it. Verezzi could
just discern the way she had taken, and this
he pursued ; but the sound of her steps soon
sunk in distance, while he, less acquainted
with the passage, was obliged to proceed
through the dark with caution, lest he should
fall down a flight of steps, such as in this
extensive old castle frequently terminated
an avenue. This passage at length brought
Emily to the corridor, into which her own
chamber opened; and, not hearing any
footstep, she paused to take breath, and
consider what was the safest design to be
adopted. She had followed this passage
merely because it was the first that ap-
peared, and now that she had reached the
end of it, was as perplexed as before. Whi-
ther to go, or how further to find her way
in the dark, she knew not : she was aware
only that she must not seek her apartment,
for there she would certainly be sought, and
her danger increased every instant while she
remained near it. Her spirits and her
breath, however, were so much exhausted,
that she was compelled to rest, for a few
minutes, at the end of the passage ; and
still she heard no steps approaching. As
thus she stood, light glimmered under an
opposite door of the gallery ; and, from its
situation, she knew that it was the door of

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

2J1

tfoat mysterious chamber where she had
made a discovery so shocking, that she
never remembered it but with the utmost
horror. That there should be light in this
chamber, and at this hour, excited her
strong surprise, and she felt a momentary
terror concerning it, which did not permit
her to look again ; for her spirits were now
in such a state of weakness, that she almost
expected 10 see the door slowly open, and
some horrible object appear at it. Still she
listened for a step along the passage, and
looked up it, where not a ray of light ap-
pearing, she concluded that Verezzi had gone
back for the lamp 5 and, believing that he
would shortly be there, she again considered
which way she should go, or rather which
way she could find in the dark.

A faint ray still glimmered under the op-
posite door, but so great, and, perhaps, so
just, was her horror of that chamber, that
she would not again have tempted its se-
crets, though she had been certain of ob-
taining the light so important to her safety.
She was still breathing with difficulty, and
resting at the end of the passage, when she
heard a restling sound, and then a low voice,
so very near her, that it seemed close to her
ear ; but she had presence of mind to check
her emotions, and to remain quite still : in
the next moment she perceived it to be the
voice of Verezzi, who did not appear to
know that she was there, but to have spoken
to himself. " The air is fresher here," said
he 5 " this should be the corridor." Perhaps
he was one of those heroes, whose courage
can defy an enemy better than darkness ;
and he tried to rally his spirits with the
sound of his own voice. However this
might be, he turned to the light, and pro-
ceeded with the same stealing steps towards
Emily's apartment, apparently forgetting
that in darkness she could easily elude his
search, even in her chamber ; and, like an
intoxicated person, he followed pertina-
ciously the one idea that had possessed his
imagination.

The moment she heard his steps steal
away, she left her station, and moved softly
to the other end of the corridor, determined
to trust again to chance, and to quit it by
the first avenue she could find ; but before
she could effect this, light broke upon the
walls of the gallery, and, looking back, she
saw Verezzi crossing it towards her cham-
ber. She now glided into a passage, that
opened on the left, without, as she thought,
being perceived ; hut, in the next instant,
another light glimmering at the further end
of this passage, threw her into new terror.
While she stopped and hesitated which way
to go, the pause allowed her to perceive
that it was Annette, who advanced, and she
hurried to meet her : but her imprudence
again alarmed Emily, on perceiving whom,

she burst into a scream of joy, and it was
some minutes before she could be prevailed
with to be silent, or to release her mistress
from the ardent clasp in which she held her.
When, at length, Emily made Annette com-
prehend her danger, they hurried towards
Annette's room, which was in a distant part
of the castle. No apprehensions, however,
could yet silence the latter/ " Oh dear
ma'amselle," said she, as they passed along,
" what a terrified time have I had of it ! Oh !
I thought I should have died an hundred
times ! I never thought I should live to see
you again ! and 1 never was so glad to see
any body in my whole life, as I am to see
you now." " Hark !" cried Emily, " we are
pursued ; that was the echo of steps !"
* No, ma'amselle," said Annette, " it was
only the echo of a door shutting 3 sound
runs along these vaulted passages so, that
one is continually deceived by it; if one
does but speak or cough, it makes a noise as
loud as a cannon." " Then there is the
greater necessity for us to be silent," said
Emily : " pr'ythee say no more till we
reach your chamber." Here, at length,
they arrived, without interruption, and An-
nette having fastened the door, Emily sat
down on her little bed, to recover breath
and composure. To her inquiry whether
Valancourt was among the prisoners in the
castle, Annette replied, that she had not
been able to hear, but that she knew there
were several persons confined. She then
proceeded, in her tedious way, to give an
account of the siege, or rather a detail of
her terrors and various sufferings during the
attack. " But," added she, •' when I heard
the shouts of victory from the ramparts, I
thought we were all taken, and gave myself
up for lost, instead of which, we had driven
the enemy away. I went then to the north
gallery, and saw a great many of them
scampering away among the mountains ;
but the rampart walls were all in ruins, as
one may say, and there was a dismal sight
to see down among the woods below, where
the poor fellows were lying in heaps, but
were carried off presently by their comrades.
While the siege was going on, the signor was
here, and there, and every- where, at the
same time, as Ludovico told me, for he
would not let me see any thing hardly, and
locked me up, as he had often done before,
in a room in the middle of the castle, and
used to bring me food, and come and talk
with me as often as he could ; and I must
say, if it had not been for Ludovico, I should
have died outright."

" Well, Annette," said Emily, " and how
have affairs gone on since the siege ?"

" O ! sad hurly-burly doing, ma*amselle,*
replied Annette \ " the signors have done
nothing but sit and drink and game, ever
since. They sit up all night, and play

212

THE MYSTERIES CF ITDOLI'HO.

among themselves for all those riches and
fine things they brought in some time since,
when they used to go out a robbing, or as
good, for days together ; and then they have
dreadful quarrels, about who loses and who
wins. That fierce Signor Verezzi is al-
ways losing, as they tell me, and Signor
Orsino wins from him, and thus makes him
very wroth, and they have had several hard
set-to's about it. Then, all those fine ladies
are at the castle still; and I declare 1 am
flighted whenever 1 meet any of them in the
passages."—

" Surely, Annette," said Emily, starting,

" I heard a noise : listen." After a long

pause, " No, ma'amselle," said Annette, " it
was only the wind in the gallery ; I often hear
h, when it shakes the old doors at the other
eud. But won't you go to bed, ma'amselle ?
vou surely will not set up starving, all
night." Emily now laid herself down on the
mattress, and desired Annette to leave the
lamp burning on the hearth ; having done
which, the latter placed herself beside Emily,
who, however, was not suffered to sleep, for
she again thought she heard a noise from the
passage ; and Annette was again trying to
convince her that it was only the wind,
when footsteps were distinctly heard near the
door. Annette was now starting from the
bed, but Emily prevailed with her to remain
there, and listened with her in a state of ter-
rible expectation. The steps still loitered at
the door, when presently an attempt was
made on the lock, and, in the next instant, a
voice called. " For heaven's sake, Annette,
do not answer," said Emily softly, " remain
quite still; but I fear we must extinguish
the lamp, or its glare will betray us."
" Holy Virgin 1" exclaimed Annette, forget-
ting her discretion, " I would not be in dark-
ness now for the whole world." While she
spoke, the voice became louder than before,
and repeated Annette's name : " Blessed
Virgin !" cried she suddenly, " it is only
Ludovico." She rose to open the door, but
Emily prevented her, till they should be
more certain, that it was he alone ; with
whom Annette, at length, talked for some
time, and learned, that he was come to en-
quire after herself, whom he had let out of
her room to go to Emily, and that he was
now returned to lock her in again. Emily,
fearful of being overheard, if they conversed
any longer through the door, consented that
it should be opened, and a young man ap-
peared, whose open countenance confirmed
the favcurable opinion of him, which his
care of Annette had already prompted her to
form. She entreated his protection, should
Verezzi make this requisite ; and Ludovico
offered to pass the night in an old chamber,
adjoining, that opened from the gallery, and
on the first alarm, to come to their defence.
Emily was much soothed by thin; propo

sal ; and Ludovico, having lighted his lamp,
went to his station, while she once more en-
deavoured to repose on her mattress. But a
variety of interests pressed upon her atten-
tion, and prevented sleep. She thought
much on what Annette had told her of the
dissolute manners of Montoni and his asso-
ciates, and more of his present conduct to-
wards herself, and of the danger from which
she had just escaped. From the view of her
present situation she shrunk, as from a new
picture of terror. She saw herself in a cas-
tle, inhabited by vice and violence, seated
beyond the reach of law or justice, and in
the power of a man whose perseverance was
equal to every occasion, and in whom pas-
sions, of which revenge was not the weakest,
entirely supplied the place of principles.
She was compelled, once more, to acknow-
ledge, that it would be folly, and not forti-
tude, any longer to dare his power ; and,
resigning all hopes of future happiness with
Valancourt, she determined, that, on the
following morning, she would compromise
with Montoni, and give up her estates, on
condition that he would permit her imme-
diate return to France. Such considerations
kept her waking for many hours, but the
night passed, without further alarm from
Verezzi.

On the next morning, Emily had a long
conversation with Ludovico, in which she
heard circumstances concerning the castle,
and received hints of the designs of Mon-
toni, that considerably increased her alarms.
On expressing her surprise, that Ludovico,
who seemed to be so sensible of the evils of
his situation, should continue in it, he in-
formed her, that it was not his intention to
do so, and she then ventured to ask him, if
he would assist her to escape from the cas-
tle. Ludovico assured her of his readiness
to attempt this, but strongly represented the
difficulty of the enterprise, and the certain
destruction which must ensue, should Mon-
toni overtake them before they had passed
the mountains ; he, however, promised to be
watchful. of every circumstance that might
contribute to the success of the attempt, and
to think upon some plan of departure.

Emily now confided to him the name of
Valancourt, and begged he would enquire
for such a person among the prisoners iu
the castle ; for the faint hope which this
conversation awakened, made her now re
cede from her resolution of an immediate
compromise with Montoni. She determined,
if possible, to delay this, till she heard fur
ther from Ludovico; and, if'his designs were
found to be impracticable, to resign the
estates at once. Her thoughts were on this
subject, when Montoni, who was now reco-
vered from the intoxication of the preceding
night, sent for her, and she immediately
obeyed the summons. He was alone. " I

THE MYSTERIES OF UIX>X,P110.

213

ft inl,** said he, M that you were not in your
chamber last night ; where were you P.
Emily related to him some circumstances of
her alarm, and entreated liis protection from
a repetition of them. ' w You know the
terms of my protection," said he ; rt if you
really value this, you will secure it." His
open declaration that he would only condi-
tionally protect her, while she remained a
prisoner in the castle, shewed Emily the ne-
cessity of an immediate compliance with his
terms 5 but she first demanded, whether he
would permit her immediately to depart, if
she gave up her claim to the contested
estates. In a very solemn manner he then
assured her that he would, and immediately
laid before her a paper, which was to trans-
fer the right of those estates to himself.

She was for a considerable time unable to
sign it, and her heart was torn with contend-
ing interests, for she was about to resign the
happiness of all her future years — the hope
which had sustained her in so many hours of
adversity.

After hearing from* Montoni a recapitula-
tion of the conditions of her compliance, and
a remonstrance that his time was valuable,
she put her hand*lTo the paper ; when she
had done which, she fell back in her chair,
but soon recovered, and desired that he
would give orders for her departure, and
that he wonld allow Annette to accompany
her. Montoni smiled. " It was necessary
to deceive you," said he— " there was no
other way of making you act reasonably ;
you shall go, but it must not beat present.
I must first secure these estates by posses-
sion : when this is done, you may return to
France if you will."

The deliberate villany with which he vio-
lated the solemn engagement he had just
entered into, shocked Emily as much as the
certainty that she had made a fruitless sacri-
fice, and must still remain his prisoner. She
had no words to express what she felt, and
knew that it would have been useless if she
had. As she looked piteously at Montoni,
he turned away, and at the same time de-
sired she would withdraw to her apartment ;
but, unable to leave the room, she sat down
in a chair near the door, and sighed heavily.
She had neither words nor tears.

cc Why will you indulge this childish
grief ?" said he. " Endeavour to strengthen
your mind to bear patiently what cannot
now be avoided ; you have no real evil to
lament ; be patient, and you will be sent
back to France. At present retire to your
apartment."

u I dare not go, sir," said she, " where I
shall be liable to the intrusion of Signor Ve-
Tezzi." " Have I not promised to protect
you ?" said Montoni. " You have pro-
mised, sir," replied Emily, after

■ome hesitation. " And is not my promise

sufficient ?" added he, sternly. " You will
recollect your former promise, signor," said
Emily, trembling, " and may determine for
roe whether I ought to rely upon this."
" Will you provoke me to declare to you
that I will not protect you then ?" said
Montoni, in a tone of haughty displeasure.
u If that will satisfy you, I will do it imme-
diately. Withdraw to your chamber before
I retract my promise ; you have nothing to
fear there." Emily left the room, and
moved slowly into the hall, where the fear of
meeting Verezzi, or Bertolini, made her
quicken her steps, though she could scarcely
support herself; and soon after she reached
once more her own apartment. Having
looked fearfully round her to examine if
any person was the»er and having searched
every part of it, she fastened the door, and
sat down by one of the casements. Here,
while she looked out for some hope to sup-
port her fainting spirits, which had been so
long harassed and oppressed, that, if she
had not now struggled much against mis-
fortune, they would have left her, perhaps,
for ever, she endeavoured to believe that
Montoni did really intend to permit her re-
turn to France as soon as he had secured her
property, and that he would, in the mean
time, protect her from insult ; but her
chief hope rested with Ludovico, who, she
doubted not, would be zealous in her cause,
though he seemed almost in despair of suc-
cess in it. One circumstance, however, she
had to rejoice in. Her prudence, or rather
her fears,- had saved her from mentioning the
name of Valancourt to Montoni, which she
was several times on the point of doing, be-
fore she signed the paper, and of stipulating
for his release, if he should be really a pri-
soner in the castle. Had she done this,
Montoni's jealous fears would now probably
have loaded Valancourt with new severities,
and have suggested the advantage of holding
him a captive for life.

Thus passed the melancholy day, as she
had before passed many in the same cham-
ber. When night drew on, she would have
withdrawn herself to Annette's bed, had not a
particular interest inclined her to remain in
this chamber, in spite of her fears; for,
when the castle should be still, and the cus-
tomary hour arrived, she determined to
watch for the music which she had formerly
heard. Though its sounds might not enable
her positively to determine whether Valan-
court was there, they would, perhaps,
strengthen her opinion that he was, and im-
part the comfort so necessary to her present
support. — But on the other hand, if all
should be silent ! — She hardly dared to suffer
her thoughts to glance that way, but waited,
with impatient expectation, the approaching
hour.

The night was stormy ; the battlements

214

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

of the castle appeared to rock in the wind,
and, at intervals, long groans seemed to
pass on the air, such as those which often
deceive the melancholy mind in tempests,
and amidst scenes of desolation. Emily
heard, as formerly, the sentinels pass along
the terrace to their posts, and, looking out
from her casement, observed that the watch
was doubled ; a precaution which appeared
necessary enough, when she threw her eyes
on the walls, and saw their shattered condi-
tion. The well-known sounds of the sol-:
diers' march, and of their distant voices,
which passed her in the wind, and were lost
again, recalled to her memory the melan-
choly sensation she had suffered, when she
formerly heard the same sounds ; and occa-
sioned almost involuntary comparisons be-
tween her present and her late situation.
But this was no subject for congratulation,
and she wisely checked the course of her
thoughts, while, as the hour was not yet
come, in which she had been accustomed to
hear the music, she closed the casement, and
endeavoured to await it in patience. The
door of the staircase she tried to secure, as
usual, with some of the furniture of the
room ; but this expedient her fears now re-
presented to her to be very inadequate to
the power and perseverance of Verezzi ; and
she often looked at a large and heavy chest,
that stood in the chamber, with wishes that
she and Annette had strength enough to
remove it. While she blamed the long stay
of this girl, who was still with Ludovico and
some Other of the servants, she trimmed her
wood fire, to make the room appear less
desolate, and sat down beside it with a book,
which her eyes perused, while her thoughts
wandered to Valancourt and her own misfor-
tunes. As she sat thus, she thought, in a
pause of the wind, she distinguished music,
and went to the casement to listen, but the
loud swell of the gust overcame every other
sound. When the wind sunk again, she
heard distinctly, in the deep pause that suc-
ceeded, the sweet strings of a lute .5 but
again, the rising tempest bore away the
notes, and again was succeeded by a solemn
pause. Emily, trembling with hope and
fear, opened her casement to listen, and to
try whether her own voice could be heard by
the musician ; for to endure any longer this
state of torturing suspense concerning
Valancourt, seemed to be utterly impossible.
There was a kind of breathless stillness in
the chambers that permitted her to distin-
guish from below the tender notes of the
very lute she had formerly heard, and with
it a plaintive voice, made sweeter by the
low rustling sound, that now began to creep
along the wood-tops, till it was lost in the
rising wind. Their tall heads then began to
wave, while, through a forest of pine, on the
left* the wind, groaning heavily, rolled on-

ward over the woods below, bending theft*
almost to their roots ; and, as the long-re-
sounding ga.te swept away, other woods, on
the right, seemed to answer the "loud
lament ;" then, others, further still, softened
it into a murmur, that died into silence.
Emily listened, with mingled awe and ex-
pectation, hope and fear ; and again the
melting sweetness of the lute was heard, and
the same solemn - breathing voice. Con-
vinced that these came from an apartment
underneath, she leaned far out of her win-
dow, that she might discover whether any
light was there ; but the casements below,
as well as those above, were sunk so deep in
the thick walls of the castle, that she could
not see them, or even the faint ray that
probably glimmered through their bars.
She then ventured to call ; but the wind
bore her voice to the other end of the
terrace, and then the music was heard as
before, in the pause of the gust. Suddenly
she thought she heard a noise in her cham-
ber, and she drew herself within the case*
ment ; but in a moment after, distinguish-
ing Annette's voice at the door, she con
eluded it was her she had heard before,
and she let her in. "Move softly, An-
nette, to the casement,'" said she, "and
listen with me ; the music is returned.**
They were silent, till, the measure chang-
ing, Annette exclaimed, " Holy Virgin J
I know that song well 5 it is a French song,
one of the favourite songs of my dear
country.1' This was the ballad Emily had
heard on a former night, though not the
one she had first listened to from the
fishing house in Gascony. "O! it is a
Frenchman that sings," said Annette : " it
must be Monsieur Valancourt." " Hark !
Annette, do not speak so loud," said
Emily, " we may be overheard." "What?
by the chevalier?" said Annette. "No,"
replied Emily mournfully, " but by some-
body, who may report us to the signoi.
What reason have you to think it is Mon-
sieur Valancourt, who sings? But hark!
now the voice swells louder ! Do you re-
collect those tones ? I fear to trust my
own judgment." " I never happened to
hear the chevalier sing, mademoiselle;"
replied Annette, who, as Emily was disap-
pointed to perceive, had no stronger reason
for concluding this to be Valancourt, than
that the musician must be a Frenchman.
Soon after, she heard the song of the fishing-
house, and distinguished her own name,
which was repeated so distinctly, that An-
nette had heard it also. She trembled, sunk
into a chair by the window, and Annette cal-
led aloud, " Monsieur Valancourt ! Monsieur
Valancourt !" while Emily endeavoured to
check her, but she repeated the call more
loudly than before, and the lute and the voice
suddenly stopped. Emily listened, for some

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

215

time, in a state of intolerable suspense ; but
no answer being returned, "It does uot
signify, mademoiselle, said Annette 5 " it is
the chevalier, and I will speak to him."
"No, Annette," said Emily, " I think I will
speak myself ; if it is he, he will know my
voice, and speak again." " Who is it," said
she, a that sings at this late hour ?"

A long silence ensued, and, having repeat,
ed the question, she perceived some faint ac-
cents mingling in the blast that swept by 5
but the sounds were so distant, and passed so
suddenly, that she could scarcely hear them,
much less distinguish the words they uttered,
or recognise the voice. After another pause,
Emily called again ; and again they heard a
voice, but as faintly as before ; and they per-
ceived, that there were other circumstances,
besides the strength and direction of the
wind, to contend with ; for the great depth,
at which the casements were fixed in the cas-
tle walls, contributed, still more than the
distance, to prevent articulated sounds from
being understood, though general ones were
easily heard. Emily, however, ventured to
believe, from the circumstance of her voice
alone having been answered, that the stran-
ger was Valancourt, as well as that he knew
her, and she gave herself up to speechless
joy. Annette, however, was not speechless.
— She renewed her calls, but received no an-
swer ; and Emily, fearing that a further at-
tempt, which certainly was, at present, highly
dangerous, might expose them to the guards
of the castle, while it could not perhaps ter-
minate her suspence, insisted on Annette's
dropping the enquiry for this night, though
she determined herself to question Ludovico
on the subject, in the morning, more ur-
gently than she had yet done. She was now
enabled to say, that the stranger, whom she
had formerly heard, was still in the castle,
and to direct Ludovico to that part of it in
which he was confined.

Emily, attended by Annette, continued at
the casement for some time, but all remained
still 3 they heard neither lute or voice again,
and Emily was now as much oppressed by
anxious joy, as she lately was by a sense of
her misfortunes. With hasty steps she
paced the room, now half calling on Valan-
court's name, then suddenly stopping, and
now going to the casement and listening,
where, however, she heard nothing bu t the
solemn waving of the woods. Sometimes
her impatience to speak to Ludovico
prompted her to send Annette to call him 5
but a sense of the impropriety of this at
midnight restrained her. Annette, mean-
while, as impatient as her mistress, went as
often to the casement to listen, and returned
almost as much disappointed. She, at length,
mentioned Signor Verezzi, and her fear lest
he should enter the chamber by the staircase
door. " But the night is now almost past, ma-

demoiselle," said she, recollecting herself:
" there is the morning light beginning to
peep over those mountains yonder, in the
east."

Emily had forgotten, till this moment,
that such a person existed as Verezzi, and
all the danger that had appeared to threaten
her ; but the mention of his name renewed
her alarm, and she remembered the old chest
that she had wished to place against the
door, which she now, with Annette, attempted
to move, but it was so heavy that they could
not lift it from the floor. " What is in this
great old chest, mademoiselle," said Annette,
" that makes it so weighty ?" Emily having
replied, " that she found it in the chamber,
when she first came to the castle, and had
never examined it," — " Then I will, ma'am.
selle," said Annette, and she tried to lift the
lid ; but this was held by a lock, for which
she had no key, and which, indeed, appeared,
from its peculiar construction, to open with
a spring. The morning now glimmered
through the casements, and the wind had
sunk into a calm. Emily looked out upon
the dusky woods, and on the twilight moun-
tains, just stealing on the eye, and saw the
whole scene, after the storm, lying in pro-
found stillness, the woods motionless, and
the clouds above, through which the dawn
trembled, scarcely appearing to move along
the heavens. One soldier was pacing the
terrace beneath, with measured steps ; and
two, more distant, were sunk asleep on the
walls, wearied with the night's watch. Ha-
ving inhaled, for a while, the pure spirit of
the air, and of vegetation, which the late
rains had called forth ; and having listened,
once more, for a note of music, she now clo
sed the casement and retired to rest.

CHAP. XXXIV.

" Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land,
For many a long month lost in snow profound,
"When Sol from Cancer sends the seasons bland,
And in their northern <:ave the storms hath bound ;
From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound,
Torrents are hurl'd, green hills emerge, and 10,
The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are

crown'd,
Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go#
And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'er-

flow."

BEATTIE.

Several of her succeeding days passed
in suspense, for Ludovico could only learn
from the soldiers that there was a prisoner
in the apartment, described to him by Emily,
and that he was a Frenchman, whom they
had taken in one of their skirmishes, with a
party of his countrymen. During this in-
terval, Emily escaped the persecutions of
Bertolini and Verezzi, by confining herself
to her apartment 5 except that sometimes,
in an evening, she ventured to walk in the
adjoining corridor. Montoni appeared to
respect his last promise, though he had

513

THE MYSTERIES OF tJDOLPHO.

prophaned his first ; for to his protection
only could she attribute her present repose ;
and in this she was now so secure, that she
did not wish to leave the castle till she could
obtain some certainty concerningValancourt ;
for which she waited, indeed, without any
sacrifice of her own comfort, since no cir-
cumstance had occurred to make her escape
probable.

On the fourth day, Ludovico informed
her, that he had hopes of being admitted to
the presence of the prisoner 3 it being the
turn of a soldier, with whom he had been
for some time familiar, to attend him on the
following night. He was not deceived in
his hope 5 for, under pretence of carrying a
pitcher of water, he entered the prison,
though, his prudence having prevented him
from telling the sentinel the real motive of
his visit, he was obliged to make his con-
ference with the prisoner a very short one;

Emily awaited the result in her own
apartment, Ludovico having promised to
accompany Annette to the corridor in the
evening ; where, after several hours impa-
tiently counted, he arrived. Emily, having
then uttered the name of Valancourt, could
articulate no more, but hesitated in trem-
bling expectation. " The chevalier would
not entrust me with his name, signora," re-
plied Ludovico-, "but when 1 just men-
tioned your's, he seemed overwhelmed with
joy, though he was not so much surprised
as I expected." "Does he then remember
me ?" she exclaimed.

"O! it is Mons. Valancourt," said An-
nette, and looked impatiently at Ludovico,
who understood her look, and replied to
Emily: " Yes, lady, the chevalier does,
indeed, remember you, and, I am sure, has a
very great regard for you, and I made bold
to say you had for him. He then enquired
how you came to know he was in the castle,
and whether you ordered me to speak to
him. The first question 1 could not answer,
but the second 1 did ; and then he went off'
into his ecstasies again. I was afraid his
joy would have betrayed him to the sentinel
at the door."

" But how does he look, Ludovico ?" in-
terrupted Emily: "is he not melancholy
and ill with his long confinement?" — Why,
as to melancholy, I saw no symptom of that,
lady, while I was with him, for he seemed
in the finest spirits I ever saw any body in,
in all my life. His countenance was all joy,
and, if one may judge from that, he was
very well 5 but 1 did not ask him." "Did
he send me no message ?" said Emily. " O
yes, signora, and something besides," re-
plied Ludovico, who searched his pockets.
•'Surely, I have not lost it," added he.
"The chevalier said he would have written,
madam, if he had had pen and ink, and was
going to have sent a very long message,

when the sentinel entered the room, but not
before he had given me this." Ludovico;
then drew forth a miniature from his bosom,
which Emily received with a trembling hand,
and perceived to be a portrait of herself —
the very picture which her mother had lost
so strangely in the fishing-house at La
Vallee.

Tears of mingled joy and tenderness
flowed to her eyes, while Ludovico pro-
ceeded— —"Tell your lady," said the che-
valier, as he gave me the picture, <that this
has been my companion, and only solace in
all my misfortunes. Tell her, that I have
worn it next my heart, and that I send it her
as the pledge of an affection which can
never die; that I would not part with it, but
to her, for the wealth of worlds 5 and that 1
now part with it, only in the hope of soon

receiving it from her hands. Tell her *

Just then, signora, the sentinel came in, and
the chevalier said no more ; but he had be-
fore asked me to contrive an interview for
him with you ; and when I told him how
little hope I had of prevailing with the
guard to assist me, he said that was not,
perhaps, of so much consequence as 1 ima-
gined, and bade me contrive to bring back
your answei , and he would inform me of
more than he chose to do then. So this, I
think, lady, is the whole of what passed."

" How, Ludovico, shall I reward you for
your zeal ;" said Emily : " but, indeed, 1 do
not now possess the means. When can you
see the chevalier again ?" "That is uncertain,
signora," replied he. " It depends upon
who stands guard next : there are not more
than one or two among them, from whom I
would dare to ask admittance to the prison-
chamber."

" I need not bid you remember, Ludovico,"
resumed Emily, " how very much interested
I am in your seeing the chevalier soon ; and,
when you do so, tell him that I have re-
ceived the picture, and, with the sentiments
he wished. Tell him 1 have suffered much,
and still suffer—" She paused. "But shall
I tell him you will see him, lady ?" said Lu-
dovico. "Most certainly I will," replied
Emily. " But when, signora, and where ?"
"That must depend upon circumstances,"
returned Emily. " The place and the hour
must be regulated by his opportunities."

"As to the place, mademoiselle," said
Annette, "there is no other place in the
castle, besides this corridor, where we can
see him in safety, you know ; and as for the
hour — it must be when all the signors are
asleep, if that ever happens!" "You mty
mention these circumstances to the chevalier,
Ludovico," said she, checking the flippancy
of Annette, " and leave them to his judgment
and opportunity. Tell him, my heart is un
changed. But, above all, let him see you
again as soon as possible jand, Ludovico, 1

run mysT fcrafcs of udolphg

517

think it is needless to tell you I shall very
anxiously look for you." Having then
wished her good night, Ludovico descended
the staircase, and Emily retired to rest, but
not to sleep, for joy now rendered her as
wakeful as she had ever been from grief.
Montoni and his castle had all vanished
from her mind, like the frightful vision of a
necromancer, and she wandered, once more,
in fairy scenes of unfading happiness :

as when, beneath the beam

Of summer moons, the distant woods among,
Or by some flood, all silver' d with the gleam,
The soft embodied Fays through airy portals
stream."

A week elapsed before Ludovico again
visited the prison 5 for the sentinels, during
that period, were men in whom he could
not confide, and he feared to awaken curi-
osity, by asking to see their prisoner. In
this interval, he communicated to Emily
terrific reports of what was passing in the
castle ; of riots, quarrels, and of carousals
more alarming than either ; while from
some circumstances which he mentioned,
she not only doubted whether Montoni meant
ever to release her, but greatly feared that
he had designs concerning her — such as she
had formerly dreaded. Her name was fre-
quently mentioned in the conversations
which Bertoloni and Verezzi held together,
and, at those times, they were fre-
quently in contention. Montoni had lost
large sums to Verezzi, so that there was a
dreadful possibility of his designing her
to be a substitute for the debt ; but as she
was ignorant that he had formerly en-
couraged the hopes of Bertolini, also, con-
cerning herself, after the latter had done
him some signal service, she knew not how
to account for these contentions between
Bertolini and Verezzi. The cause of them,
however, appeared to be of little conse-
quence, for she thought she saw destruc-
tioit approaching in many forms, and her
entreaties to Ludovico to contrive an escape,
and to see the prisoner again, were more
urgent than ever.

At length, he informed her that he had
again visited the chevalier, who had di-
rected him to confide in the guard of the
prison, from whom he had already re-
ceived some instances of kindness, and
who had promised to permit his going into
the castle for half an hour, on the en-
suing night, when Montoni and his com-
panions should be engaged at their carou-
sals. " This was kind, to be sure," added
Ludovico : " but Sebastian knows he runs
no risque in letting the chevalier out, for,
if he can get beyond the bars and iron
doors of the castle, he must be cunning
indeed. But the chevalier desired me,
signora, to go to you immediately, and
tn beg you would allow him to visit you,

this night, if it was only for a moment, for
that he could no longer live under the same
roof without seeing you % the hour he said
he could not mention, for it must depend
on circumstances (just as you said, signora) j
and the place he desired you would ap-
point, as knowing which was best for your
own safety."

Emily was now so much agitated by the
near prospect of meeting Valancourt, that
it was some time before she could give
any answer to Ludovico, or consider of the
place of meeting; when she did, she saw
none that promised so much security, as
the corridor, near her own apartment,
which she was checked from leaving, by
the apprehension of meeting any of Mon-
toni's guests on their way to their rooms ;
and she dismissed the scruples which deli-
cacy opposed, now that a serious danger
was to be avoided by encountering them.
It was settled, therefore, that the cheva-
lier should meet her in the corridor, at
that hour of the night which Ludovico,
who was to be upon the watch, should judge
safest : and Emily, as may be imagined,
passed this interval in a tumult of hope
and joy, anxiety and impatience. Never,
since her residence in the castle, had she
watched, with so much pleasure, the sun
set behind the mountains, and twilight
shade and darkness veil the scene, as on
this evening. She counted the notes of
the great clock, and listened to the steps
of the sentinels, as they changed the watch,
only to rejoice that another hour was gone.
« O Valancourt !" said she, « after all I
have suffered ; after our long, long separa-
tion, when I thought 1 should never — never,
see you more — we are still to meet again !
O ! I have endured grief, and anxiety, and
terror, and let me, then, not sink beneath
this joy !" These were moments, when it
was impossible for her to feel emotions of
regret, or melancholy, for any ordinary
interests— even the reflection, that she
had resigned the estates which would have
been a provision for herself and Valancourt
for life, threw only a light and transient
shade upon her spirits. The idea of Valan-
court, and that she should see him so soon,
alone occupied her heart.

At length the clock struck twelve ; she
opened the door to listen if any noise was
in the castle, and heard only distant shouts
of riot and laughter, echoed feebly along
the gallery. She guessed that the signor
and his guests were at the banquet. " They
are now engaged for the night," said she ;
" and Valancourt will soon be here."—
Having softly closed the door, she paced
the room with impatient steps, and often
went to the casement to listen for the lute,
but all was silent, and her agitation every
moment increasing, she was at length

218

THE MYSTERIES OF IJDOLPHO.

unable to support herself, and sat down by
the window. Annette, whom she detained,
was, in the mean time, as loquacious as
usual ; but Emily heard scarcely any thing
she said, and having at length risen to the
casement, she distinguished the chords of
the lute, struck with an exprersive hand,
and then the voice she had formerly listened
to accompanied it.

" Now vising love they fann'd, now pleasing dole
They breath'd in tendermusiugs through the heart;
And now a graver, sacred strain they stoler
As when seraphic hands an hymn impart?"

Emily wept in doubtful joy and tender «•
ness ; and, when the strain ceased, she con-
sidered it as a signal that Valancourt was
about to leave the prison. Soon after, she
heard steps in the corridor, — they were
the light, quick steps of hope ; she could
scarcely support herself as they approach-
ed, but, opening the door of the apart-
ment, she advanced to meet Valancourt,
and in the next moment sunk in the arms
of a stranger. His voice — his countenance
instantly convinced her, and she fainted
away.

On reviving, she found herself support-
ed by the stranger, who was watching over
her recovery with a countenance of inef-
fable tenderness and anxiety. She had no
spirits for reply, or enquiry : she asked no
questions, but burst into tears, and disen-
gaged herself from his arms ; when the ex-
pression of his countenance changed to sur-
prise and disappointment, and he turned
to Ludovico for an explanation ; Annette
soon gave the information, which Ludo-
vico could not. " O, sir !" said she, in a
voice, interrupted with sobs ; " O, sir !
you are not the other chevalier. We ex-
pected Monsieur Valancourt, but you are
not he ! O Ludovico ! how could you de-
ceive us so ? my poor lady will never re-
cover it — never 1" The stranger, who now
appeared much agitated, attempted to
speak, but his words faltered ; and then
striking his hand against his forehead, as if
in sudden despair, he walked abruptly to
the other end of the corridor.

Suddenly, Annette dried her tears, and
spoke to Ludovico. u But, perhaps, said
she, " after all, the other chevalier is not
this : perhaps the Chevalier Valancourt is
still below." Emily raised her head. "No,"
replied Ludovico, "Monsieur Valancourt
never was below, if this gentleman is
not he. — If you, sir," said Ludovico, ad-
dressing the stranger, "would but have
had the goodness to trust me with your
name, this mistake had been avoided."
" Most true," replied the stranger, speak-
ing in broken Italian, " but it was of the
utmost consequence tc me that my name
should be concealed from Montoni.— -
Madam," added he, then addressing Emily

in French, " will you permit me to apolo-
gize for the pain I have occassioned you,
and to explain to you alone my name,
and the circumstance which has led me into
this error ? I am of France ; — I am your
countryman ;■— we are met in a foreign
land?" Emily tried to compose her
spirits 5 yet she hesitated to grant his re-
quest. At length, desiring that Ludovico
would wait on the staircase, and detaining
Annette, she told the stranger that her
woman understood very little Italian, and
begged he would communicate what he
wished to say in that language.— Having
withdrawn to a distant part of the corridor,
he said, with a long drawn sigh,* " You,
madam, are no stranger to me, though I
am so unhappy as to be unknown to you.—
My name is Du Pont ; I am of France, of
Gascony, your native province, and have
long admired,— and why should I affect to
disguise it ? — have long loved you." He
paused, but, in the next moment, pro-
ceeded. " My family, madam, is probably
not unknown to you, for we lived within a
few. miles of La Vallee, and I have, some-
times, had the happiness of meeting you,,
on visits in the neighbourhood. I will not
offend you by repeating how much you in-
terested me ; how much I loved to wander
in the scenes you frequented ; how often l
visited your favourite fishing-house, and
lamented the circumstance which at that
time forbade me to reveal my passion. 1
will not explain how I surrendered to
temptation, and became possessed of a
treasure which was to me inestimable ; a
treasure which I committed to your mes-
senger, a few days ago, with expectations
very different from my present ones. I will
say nothing of these circumstances, for 1
know they will avail me little; let me
only supplicate from you forgiveness, and
the picture, which I so unwarily returned.
Your generosity will pardon the theft, and
restore the prize. My crime has been my
punishment; for the portrait I stole has
contributed to nourish a passion, which
must still be my torment."

Emily now interrupted him. " I think,
sir, I may leave it to your integrity to deter-
mine, whether, after what has just appeared,
concerning Mons. Valancourt, I ought to
return the picture. I think you will ac-
knowledge that this would not be generosity ;
and you will allow me to add that it would
be doing myself an inj ustice. 1 must consi
der myself honoured by your good opinion,

but" and she hesitated, — " the mistake

of this evening makes it unnecessary for me
to say more."

" It does, madam, — alas ! it does ;" said
the stranger, who, after a long pause, pro-
ceeded.—-" But you will allow me to shew
my disinterestedness, though not iny love,

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

215)

and will accept the services I offer. Yet,
alas ! what services can I offer ? I am myself
a prisoner, a sufferer, like you. But, dear
as liberty is to me, I would not seek it
through half the hazards I would encounter
to deliver you from this recess of vice. Ac-
cept the offered services of a friend ; do not
refuse me the reward of having, at least, at-
tempted to deserve your thanks."

" You deserve them already, sir,1' said
Emily; " the wish deserves my warmest
thanks. But you will excuse me for re-
minding you of the danger you iucur by
prolonging this interview. It will be a
great consolation to me to remember, whe-
ther your friendly attempts to release me
succeed or not, that I . have a countryman
who would so generously protect me."—
Monsieur Du Pont took her hand, which she
but feebly attempted to withdraw, and pres-
sed it respectfully to his lips. " Allow me
to breathe another fervent sigh for your hap-
piness," said he, " and to applaud myself
for an affection which I cannot conquer."
As he said this, Emily heard a noise from
her apartment, and, turning round, saw the
door from the staircase open, and a man
rush into her chamber. " I will teach you
to conquer it," cried he, as he advanced into
the corridor, and drew a stiletto, which he
aimed at Du Pont, who was unarmed, but
who, stepping back, avoided the blow, and
then sprung upon Verezzi, from whom he
wrenched the stiletto. While they strug-
gled in each other's grasp, Emily, followed
by Annette, ran further into the corridor,
calling on Ludovico, who was, however,
gone from the staircase, and, as she advan-
ced, terrified and uncertain what to do, a
distant noise, that seemed to arise from the
hall, reminded her of the danger she was
incurring •, and, sending Annette forward in
search of Ludovico, she returned to the spot
where Du Pont and Verezzi were still strug-
gling for victory. It was her own cause
which was to be decided with that of the
former, whose conduct, independently of this
circumstance, would, however, have inter-
ested her in his success, even had she not
disliked and dreaded Verezzi. She threw her-
self in a chair, and supplicated them to
desist from further violence, till at length
Du Pont forced Verezzi to the floor, where
he lay stunned by the violence of his fall ;
and she then entreated Du Pont to escape
from the room, before Montoni, or his party,
should appear : but he still refused to leave
her unprotected j and while Emily, now
more terrified for him than for herself, en-
forced the entreaty, they heard steps ascend-
ing the private staircase.

" O, you are lost 1" cried she, " these are
Montoni's people." Du Pont made no re-
ply, but supported Emily, while with a
steady though eager countenance, he waited

their appearance, and, in the next moment,
Ludovico alone mounted the landing-place.
Throwing an hasty glance round the cham
ber, " Follow me," said he, * as you value
your lives ; we have not an instant to lose !r

Emily enquired what had occurred, and
whither they were to go.

" I cannot stay to tell you now, signora,"
replied Ludovico : " fly ! fly."

She immediately followed him, accompa-
nied by Mons. du Pont, down the staircase,
and along a vaulted passage, when suddenly
she recollected Annette, and enquired for
her. " She awaits us further on, signora,"
said Ludovico, almost breathless with haste ;
" the gates were open, a moment since, to a
party just come in from the mountains :
they will be shut, I fear, before we can reach
them ! Through this door, signora," added
Ludovico, holding down the lamp, * take
care, here are two steps."

Emily followed, trembling still more than
before she had understood that her escape
from the castle depended upon the present
moment ; while Du Pont supported her, and
endeavoured, as they passed along, to cheer
her spirits.

" Speak low, signor," said Ludovico,
" these passages send echoes all round the
castle."

" Take care of the light," cried Emily,
" you go so fast, that the air will extinguish
it."

Ludovico now opened another door,
where they found Annette, and the party
then descended a short flight of steps into
a passage, which, Ludovico said, led round
the inner court of the castle, and opened
into the outer one. As they advanced,
confused and tumultuous sounds, that seem-
ed to come from the inner court, alarmed
Emily. " Nay, signora," said Ludovico,
" our only hope is in that tumult ; while
the signor's people are busied about the
men who are just arrived, we may, perhaps,
pass unnoticed through the gates. But
hush !" he added, as they approached the
small door that opened into the outer court,
" if you will remain here a moment, I will
go to see whether the gates are open, and
any body is in the way. Pray extinguish
the light, signor, if you hear me talking,"
continued Ludovico, delivering the lamp to
Du Pont, " and remain quite still."

Saying this, he stepped out upon the
court, and they closed the door, listening
anxiously to his departing steps, No
voice, however, was heard in the court,
which he was crossing, though a confusion
of many voices yet issued from the inner
one. " We shall soon be beyond the walls,"
said Du Pont softly to Emily, " support
yourself a little longer, madam, and all will
be well."

But soon they heard Ludovico speaking

220

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOf ,PHO.

loud, and the voice also of some other
person, and Du Pont immediately extin-
guished the lamp. "Ah! it is too late!"
exclaimed Emily, " what is to become of
us ?" They listened again, and then per-
ceived that Ludovico was talking with a
sentinel, whose voices were heard also by
Emily's favourite dog, that had followed
her from the chamber, and now barked
loudly, "This dog will betray us!" said
Du Pont, " I will hold him." " I fear he
has already betrayed us !" replied Emily.
Du Pont, however, caught him up, and,
again listening to what was going on with-
out, they heard Ludovico say, " I'll watch
the gates the while."

" Stay a minute," replied the sentinel,
" and you need not have the trouble, for
the horses will be sent round to the outer
stables, then the gates will be shut, and I
can leave my post." " I don't mind the
trouble, comrade," said Ludovico, " you
will do such another good turn for me,
some time. Go — go, and fetch the wine ;
the rogues that are just come in will drink
it all else."

The soldier hesitated, and then called
aloud to the people in the second court to
know why they did not send out the horses,
that the gates might be shut; but they
were too much engaged to attend to him,
even if they had heard his voice.

« Aye — aye," said Ludovico, " they know
better than that; they are sharing it all
among them; if you wait till the horses
come out, you must wait till the wine is
drunk. 1 have had my share already, but,
since you do not care about your's, 1 see
no reason why I would not have that too."

" Hold, hold, not so fast,'1 cried the sen-
tinel, " do watch, then, for a moment ; Til
be with you presently."

" Don't hurry yourself," said Ludovico,
coolly, " 1 have kept guard before now.
But you may leave me your trombone,*
that, if the castle should be attacked, you
know, I may be able to defend the pass
like a hero."

" There, my good fellow," returned the
soldier, " there, take it — it has seen service,
though it could do little in defending the
castle. Til tell you a good story, though,
about this same trombone."

" You'll tell it better when you have had
the wine," said Ludovico. " There ! they
are coming out from the court already."

" I'll have the wine, though," said the
sentinel, running off. " I won't keep you a
minute."

« Take your time, I am m no haste,"
replied Ludovico, who was already hurrying
across the court when the soldier came back.
«' Whither so fast, friend — whither so fast ?''

• A kind of Uuaclcibuss.

said the latter. " What t is this the way
you keep watch ? I must stand to my post,
myself, r see."

" Aye, well," replied Ludovico, " you
have saved me the trouble of following you
further, fori want to tell you, if you have
a mind to drink the Tuscany wine, you
must go to Sebastian, he is dealing it out ;
the other that Frederico has, is not worth
having. But you are not likely to have any,
1 see, for they are all coming out."

"By St. Peter! so they are," said the
soldier, and again ran off, while Ludovico,
once more at liberty, hastened to the door
of the passage, where Emily was sinking
under the anxiety this long discourse had
occasioned; but, on his telling them the
court was clear, they followed him to the
gates, without waiting another instant, yet
not before he had seized two horses that
had strayed from the second court, and
were picking a scanty meal along the grassy
which grew between the pavement of the
first.

They passed, without interruption, the
dreadful gates, and took the road that led
down among the woods, Emily, Monsieur
Du Pont, and Annette on foot, and Ludo-
vico, who was mounted on one horse, lead-
ing the other. Having reached them, they
stopped, while Emily and Annette were
placed on horseback with their two pro-
tectors, when Ludovico leading the way,
they set off as fast as the broken road, and
the feeble light which a rising moon threw
among the foliage, would permit.

Emily was so much astonished by this
sudden departure, that she scarcely dared
to believe herself awake ; and she yet much
doubted whether this adventure would ter-
minate in escape?— a doubt which had too
much probability to justify it; for, before
they quitted the woods, they heard shouts
in the wind, and, on emerging from them,
saw lights moving quickly near the castle
above. Du Pont whipped his horse, and
with some difficulty compelled him to go
faster.

" Ah ! poor beast," said Ludovico, " he
is weary enough ; he has been out all day ;
but, signor, we must fly for it now ; for yon-
der are the lights coming this way."

Having given his own horse a lasfy they
now both set off on a full gallop; and,
when they again looked back, the lights
were so distant as scarcely to be discerned,
and the voices were sunk into silence. The
travellers then abated their pace, and con
suiting whither they should direct their
course, it was determined they should
descend into Tuscany, and endeavour to
reach the Mediterranean, where they could
readily embark for France. Thither Du
Pont meant to attend Emily, if he should
learn that the regiment he had accom

panied into Italy was returned to his native
country.

They were now on the road which Emily
bad travelled with Ugo and Bertrand ; but
Ludovico, who was the only one of the
party acquainted with the passes of these
mountains, said that, a little further on, a
bye road, branching from this, would lead
them down into Tuscany with very little
difficulty ; and that, at a few leagues dis-
tance, was a small town where necessaries
could be procured for their journey.

" But I hope," added he, " we shall meet
with no straggling parties of banditti ; some
of them are abroad, I know. However, I
have got a good trombone, which will be of
some service, if we should encounter any of
those brave spirits. You have no arms,
signor ?"— " Yes," replied Du Pont. « "
have the villain's stilleto, who would have
stabbed me—but let us rejoice in our escape
from Udolpho, nor torment ourselves
with looking out for dangers that may
never arrive."

The moon was now risen high over the
woods, that hung upon the sides of the
narrow glen, through which they wandered,
and afforded them light sufficient to distin-
guish their way, and to avoid the loose and
broken stones that frequently crossed it.
They now travelled leisurely, and in pro-
found silence ; for they had scarcely yet
recovered from the astonishment into which
this sudden escape had thrown them.—
Emily's mind, especially, was sunk, after
the various emotions it had suffered, into a
kind of musing stillness, which the reposing

beauty ot the surrounding scene, and the
creeping murmur of the night breeze among
the foliage above, contributed to prolong.
She thought of Valancourt aud of France
with hope, and she would have thought of
them with joy, had not the first events of
this evening harassed her spirits too much,
to permit her now to feel so lively a sensa-
tion. Meanwhile, Emily was alone the
object of Du Pontes melancholy considera
tion; yet, with the despondency he suffered,
as he mused on his recent disappointment,
was mingled a sweet pleasure, occasioned
by her presence, though they did not now
exchange a single word. Annette thought
of this wonderful escape, of the bustle in
which Montoui and his people must be now
that their flight was discovered ; of her
native country, whither she hoped she was
returning 5 and of her marriage with Ludo-
vico, to which there no longer appeared any
impediment, for poverty she did not con-
sider such. Ludovico, on his part, congra-
tulated himself on having rescued his An-
nette and Signora Emily from the danger
that had surrounded them ; on his own
liberation from people, whose manners he
had long detested ; on the freedom he had
given to Monsieur Du Pont j on his pros-
pect of happiness with the object of his
affections ; and not a little on the address
with which he had deceived the sentinel,
and conducted the whole of this affair.

Thus variously engaged in thought, the
travellers passed on silently, for above an
hour, a question being only now and theu
asked by Du Pont, concerning the road,

221

<IVI

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

or a remark uttered by Annette, respecting
objects seen imperfectly in the twilight.
At length lights were perceived twinkling
on the side of a mountain, and Ludovico
had no doubt that they proceeded from the
town he had mentioned, while his com.
panions, satisfied by this assurance, sunk
again into silence. Annette was the first
who interrupted this. " Holy Peter !" said
she, " what shall we do for money on our
journey ? for I know neither I, or my lady,
have a single sequin 3 the signor took care
of that !"

This remark produced a serious inquiry,
which ended in as serious an embarrass-
ment, for Du Pont had been rifled of nearly
all his money when he was taken prisoner j
the remainder he had given to the sen-
tinel, who had enabled him occasionally to
leave the prison-chamber \ and Ludovico,
who had for some time found a difficulty
in procuring any part of the wages due to
him, had now scarcely cash sufficient to
procure necessary refreshment at the first
town in which they should arrive.

Their poverty was the more distressing,
since it would detain them among the moun-
tains, where, even in a town, they could
scarcely consider themselves safe from Mon-
toni» The travellers, however, had only to
proceed and dare the future \ and they
continued their way through lonely wilds
and dusky valliee, where the over-hanging
foliage now admitted and then excluded the
moon-light ; — wilds so desolate, that they
appeared, on the first glance, as if no
human being had ever trode them before.
Even the road, in which the party were,
did but slightly contradict this error, for
the high grass and other luxuriant vege-
tation, with which it was overgrown, told
how very seldom the foot of a traveller had
passed it.

At length, from a distance, was heard
the faint tinkling of a sheep-bell ; and,
soon after, the bleat of flocks, and the party
then knew that they were near some human
habitation, for the light which Ludovico
had fancied to proceed from a town, had
long been concealed by intervening moun-
tains. Cheered by this hope, they quick-
ened their pace along the narrow pass they
were winding, and it opened upon one of
those pastoral v allies of the Apennines,
which might be painted for a scene of Arca-
dia, and whose beauty and simplicity are
finely contrasted by the grandeur of the
snow-topt mountains above.

The morning light, now glimmering in
the horizon, shewed faintly, at a little dis-
tance, upon the brow of a hill which seemed
to peep from " under the opening eye-lids
of the morn," the town they were in search
of, and which they soon after reached. It
was not without some difficulty that they

there found a house, which could afford
shelter for themselves and their horses ; and
Emily desired they might not rest longer
than was necessary for refreshment. Her
appearance excited some surprise -, for she
,was without a hat, having had time only
to throw on her veil before she left the cas-
tle, a circumstance that compelled her to
regret again the want of money, without
which it was impossible to procure this
necessary article of dress.

Ludovico, on examining his purse, found
it even insufficient to supply present refresh-
ment, and Du Pont, at length, ventured to
inform the landlord, whose countenance was
simple and honest, of their exact situation,
and requested that he would assist them to
pursue their journey ; a purpose which he
promised to comply with, as far as he was
able, when he learned that they were prison-
ers escaping from Montoni, whom he had
too much reason to hate. But though he
consented to lend them fresh horses to carry
them to the next town, he was too poor
himself to trust them with money, and they
were again lamenting their poverty, when
Ludovico, who had been with his tired horses
to the hovel which served for a stable, en-
tered the room, half frantic with joy, in
which his auditors soon participated. On
removing the saddle from one of the horses,
he had found beneath it a small bag, con-
taining, no doubt, the booty of one of the
Condottieri, who had returned from a plun-
dering excursion, just before Ludovico left
the castle, and whose horse having strayed
from the inner court, while his master was
engaged in drinking, had brought away the
treasure which the ruffian had considered
the reward of his exploit.

On counting over this, Du Pont found
that it would be more than sufficient to
carry them all to France, where he now de-
termined to accompany Emily, whether he
should obtain intelligence of his regiment
or not ; for, though he had as much con-
fidence in the integrity of Ludovico, as his
small knowledge of him allowed, he could
not endure the thought of committing her
to his care for the voyage ; nor, perhaps,
had he resolution enough to deny himself
the dangerous pleasure, which he might de-
rive from her presence.

He now consulted them concerning the
sea-port to which they should direct their
way ; and Ludovico, better informed of the
geography of the country, said that Leg-
horn was the nearest port of consequence,
which Du Pont knew also to be the most
likely of any in Italy to assist their plan,
since from thence vessels of all nations
were continually departing. Thither, there-
fore, it was determined, that they should
proceed.

Emily, having purchased a little straw-hat,

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

353

such as was worn by the peasant girls of
Tuscany, and some other little necessary
equipments for the journey, and the travel-
lers, having exchanged their tired horses for
others better able to carry them, re-commen-
ced their joyous way, as the sun was rising
over the mountains, and, after travelling
through the romantic country, for several
hours, began to descend into the vale of
Arno. And here Emily beheld all the
charms of sylvan and pastoral landscape
united, adorned with the elegant villas of the
Florentine nobles, and diversified with the
various riches of cultivation. How vivid
the shrubs, that embowered the slopes, with
the M'oods, that stretched amphitheatrically
along the mountains ! and, above all, how
elegant the outline of those wavering Apen-
nines," now softening from the wildness which
their interior regions exhibited ! At a dis-
tance, in the east, Emily discovered Flo-
rence, with its towers rising on the brilliant
hor'zon, and its luxuriant plain spreading to
the feet of the Apennines, speckled with gar-
dens and magnificent villas, or coloured
with groves of orange and lemon, with vines,
corn, and plantations of olives and mulberry;
while, to the west, the vale opened to the
waters of the Mediterranean ; so distant, that
they were known only by a bluish line that
appeared upon the horizon, and by the light
marine vapour which just stained the aether
above.

With a full heart, Emily hailed the waves,
that were to bear her back to her native
country, the remembrance of which, however,
brought with it a pang ; for she had there no
home to receive, no parents to welcome her,
but was going, like a forlorn pilgrim, to
weep over the sad spot, where he, who was
her father, lay interred. Nor were her spirits
cheered, when she considered how long it
would probably be before she should see
Valancourt, who might be stationed with his
regiment in a distant part of France, and
that, when they did meet, it would be only
to lament the successful villany of Montoni;
yet, still she would have felt inexpressible
delight at the thought of being once more in
the same country with Valancourt, had it
even been certain that she could not see him.
The intense heat, for it was now noon,
obliged the travellers to look out for a shady
recess, where they might rest for a few
hours; and the neighbouring thickets,
abounding with wild grapes, raspberries, and
figs, promised them grateful refreshment.
Soon after, they turned from the road into a
grove whose thick foliage entirely excluded
the sun-beams, and where a spring, gushing
from the rock, gave coolness to the air;
and, having alighted and turned the horses
to graze, Annette and Ludovico ran to
gather fruit from the surrounding thickets,
of which they soon returned with an abun-

dance. The travellers, seated under the
shade of a pine and cypress grove, and on
turf enriched with such a profusion of fra-
grant flowers, as Emily had scarcely ever
seen, even among the Pyrenees, took their
simple repast, and viewed with new delight,
beneath the dark umbrage of gigantic pines,
the glowing landscape stretching to the
sea.

Emily and Du Pont gradually became
thoughtful and silent ; but Annette was all
joy and loquacity, and Ludovico was gay,
without forgetting the respectful distance
which was due to his companions. The re-
past being over, Du Pont recommended
Emily to endeavour to sleep, during these
sultry hours, and, desiring the servants
would do the same, said he would watch
the while; but Ludovico wished to spare
him this trouble ; and Emily and Annette,
wearied with travelling, tried to repose,
while he stood guard with his trombone.

When Emily, refreshed by slumber,
awoke, she found the sentinel asleep on
his post, and Du Pont awake, but lost in
melancholy thought. As the sun was yet
too high to allow them to continue their
journey, and as it was necessary that Lu-
dovico, after the toils and trouble he had
suffered, should finish his sleep, Emily
took this opportunity of enquiring by what
accident Du Pont became Montoni's pri-
soner, and he, pleased with the interest
this enquiry expressed, and with the excuse
it gave him for talking to her of himself,
immediately answered her curiosity.

" I came into Italy, madam," said Du
Pont, " in the service of my country. In an
adventure among the mountains, our party
engaging with the bands of Montoni, was
routed, and 1, with a few of my comrades,
was taken prisoner. When they told me
whose captive I was, the name of Montoni
struck me, for I remembered that Madame
Cheron, your aunt, had married an Italian
of that name, and that you had accompanied
them into Italy. It was not, however, till
some time after, that I became convinced
this was the same Montoni, or learned that
you, madam, was under the same roof with
myself. I will not pain you by describing
what were my emotions upon this discovery,
which I owned to a sentinel, whom I had so
far won to my interest, that he granted me
many indulgences, one of which was very
important to me, and somewhat dangerous
to himself; but he persisted in refusing to
convey any letter, or notice of my situation,
to you, for he justly dreaded a discovery,
and the consequent vengeance of Montoni.
He however enabled me to see you more
than once. You are surprised, madam ;
and I will explain myself. My health and
spirits suffered extremely from want of air
and exercise, and, at length, I gained so far

224

THE MYSTERIES OF LBOIPHO

Upon the pity, or the avarice of the man,
that he gave me the means of walking on
the terrace."

Emily now listened with very anxious
attention to the narrative of Du Pont, who
proceeded :

« in granting this indulgence, he knew
that he had nothing to apprehend from a
chance of my escaping from a castle which
was vigilantly guarded, and the nearest
terrace of which rose over a perpendicular
rock : he showed me also," continued Du
Pont, <c a door concealed in the cedar wains-
cot of the apartment where I was confined,
which he instructed me how to open ; and
which, leading into a passage, formed with-
in the thickness of the wall, that extended
far along the castle, finally opened in an ob-
scure corner of the eastern rampart. I have
since been informed that there are many pas-
sages of the same kind concealed within
the prodigious walls of that edifice, and
which were, undoubtedly, contrived for the
purpose of facilitating escapes in time of
war. Through this* avenne, at the dead of
night, I often stole to the terrace, where
I walked with the utmost caution, lest my
steps should betray me to the sentinels on
duty in distant parts ; for this end of it,
being guarded by high buildings, was not
watched by soldiers. In one of these mid-
night wanderings, I saw light in a casement
that overlooked the rampart, and which, I
observed, was immediately over my prison
chamber. It occurred to me, that you
might be in that apartment, and, with the
hope of seeing you, I placed myself oppo-
site to the window.

Emily, remembering the figure that had
formerly appeared on the terrace, and which
had occasioned her so much anxiety, ex-
claimed, " It was you, then, Monsieur Du
Pont, who occasioned me much foolish ter-
ror ; my spirits were, at that time, so much
weakened by long suffering, that they took
alarm at every hint." Du Pont, after la-
menting that he had occasioned her any ap-
prehension, added : "As I rested on the
wall, opposite to your casement, the consi-
deration of your melancholy situation and
of my own, called from me involuntary
sounds of lamentation, which drew you, I
fancy, to the casement ; I saw there a per-
son whom I believed to be you. O ! I will
say nothing of my emotion at that moment ;
I wished to spefik, but prudence restrained
me, till the distant footstep of the sentinel
compelled me suddenly to quit my station.

" It was some time before I had another
opportunity of walking, for 1 could only
leave my prison when it happened to be the
turn of one man to guard me : meanwhile I
became convinced, from some circumstances
related by him, that your apartment was
over mine 5 and when again I ventured forth,

1 returned to your casement, where again 1
saw you, but without daring to speak. 1
waved my hand, and you suddenly disap-
peared j — then it was that I forgot my pru-
dence, and yielded to lamentation ; again
you appeared— you spoke — I heard the well-
known accent of your voice ; and, at that
moment, my discretion would have forsaken
me again, had I not heard also the approach-
ing steps of a soldier, when I instantly
quitted the place, though not before the
man had seen me. He followed down the
terrace, and gained so fast upon me, that I
was compelled to make use of a stratagem,
ridiculous enough, to save myself. 1 had
heard of the superstition of many of these
men, and I uttered a strange noise, with a
hope that my pursuer would mistake it for
something supernatural, and desist from
pursuit. Luckily for myself, I succeeded :
the man, it seems, was subject to fits, and
the terror he suffered threw him into one,
by which accident I secured my retreat. A
sense of the danger I had escaped, and the
increased watchfulness which my appear-
ance had occasioned among the sentinels, de-
terred me ever after from walking on the
terrace ; but, in the stillness of night, I fre-
quently beguiled myself with an old lute,
procured for me by a soldier, which I some-
times accompanied with my voice, and
sometimes, I will acknowledge, with a hope
of making myself heard by you : but it was
only a few evenings ago that this hope was
answered • I then thought I heard a voice in
the wind, calling me; yet, even then, I
feared to reply, lest the sentinel at the pi i
son-door should hear me. Was I rig] it,
madam, in this conjecture — was it you who
spoke ?"

" Yes," said Emily, with an involuntary
sigh, " you was right indeed."

Du Pont, observing the painful emotions
which this question revived, now changed
the subject. " In one of my excursions
through the passage, which I have mention*
ed, I overheard a singular conversation,'
said he.

" In the passage !" said Emily, with sur-
prise.

" 1 heard it in the passage," said Du Pont.
" But it proceeded from an apartment ad-
joining the wall, within which the passage
wound, and the shell of the wall was there so
thin, and was also somewhat decayed, that I
could distintly hear every word spoken on
the other side. It happened that Montoni
and his companions were assembled in the
room, and Montoni began to relate the ex-
traordinary history of the lady, his predeces-
sor, in the castle. He did, indeed, mention
some very surprising circumstances, and
whether they were strictly true, his con-
science must decide ; I fear it will deter-
mine against him. But you, madam, have

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

225

doubtless heard the report, which he designs
should circulate, on the subject of that lady's
mysterious fate."

"" I have, sir," replied Emily, "and I per-
ceive that you doubt it."

" I doubted it before the period I am
speaking of," rejoined Du Pont ; — " but
some circumstances, mentioned by M ontoni,
greatly contributed to my suspicions. The
account I then heard almost convinced me
tbat he was a murderer. I trembled for you ;
the more so that I had heard the guests
mention your name in a manner that threat-
ened your repose ; and, knowing that the
most impious men are often the most super-
stitious, I determined to try whether I could
not awaken their consciences, and awe them
from the commission of the crime I dreaded.
I listened closely to Montoni, and in the
most striking passages of his story I joined
my voice, and repeated his last words in a
disguised and hollow tone."

" But was you not afraid of being disco-
vered ?" said Emily. ~yC

" 1 was not," replied Du Pont ; " for 1
knew, that if Montoni had been acquainted*
with the secret of this passage, be would not
nave confined me in the apartment to which
it led. I knew also, from better authority,
that he was ignorant of it. The party, for
some time, appeared inattentive to my voice;
but, at length, were so much alarmed, that
they quitted the apartment 5 and, having
heard Montoni order his servants to search
it, I returned to my prison, which was very
distant from this part of the passage." — " I
remember perfectly to have heard of the
conversation you mention," said Emily ;
* it spread a general alarm among Mon-
foni's people, and I will own I was weak
enough to partake of it."

Monsieur Du Pont and Emily thus con-
tinued to converse of Montoni, and^ then of
France, and of the plan of their voyage ;
when Emily told him, that it was her inten-
tion to retire to a convent in Languedoc,
wnere she had formerly been treated with
much kindness, and from thence to write to
her relation Monsieur Quesnel, and inform
him of her conduct. There she designed to
wait till La Vallee should again be her own,
whither she hoped her income would some
time permit her to return ; for Du Pont
now taught her to expect, that the estate, of
which Montoni had attempted to defraud
her, was not irrecoverably lost, and he again
congratulated her on her escape from Mon-
toni, who, lie had not a doubt, meant to have
detained her for life. The possibility of re-
covering her aunt's estates for Valancourt
and herself, lighted up a joy in Emily's
heart, such as she had not known for many
months : but she endeavoured to conceal
this from Monsieur Du Pont, lest it should
Q

lead him to a painful remembrance of his
rival.

They continued to converse, till the sun
was declining in the west, when Du Pont
awoke Ludovico, and they set forward on
their journey. Gradually descending the
lower slopes of the valley, they reached the
Arno, and wound along its pastoral margin,
for many miles, delighted with the scenery
around them, and with the remembrances
which its classic waves revived. At a dis.
tance, they heard the gay song of the pea-
sants among the vineyards, and observed the
setting sun tint the waves with yellow lus-
tre, and twilight draw a dusky purple over
the mountains, which, at length^ deepened
into night. Then the lucciola, the fire-fly
of Tuscany, was seen to flash its sudden
sparks among the foliage, while the ciealay
with its shrill note, became more clamorous
than even during the noon-day heat, loving
best the hour when the English beetle, with
less offensive sound,

winds

His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path.

Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum." •

The travellers crossed the Arno by moon,
light, at a ferry, and learning that Pisa wa9
only a few miles down the river, they wish-
ed to have proceeded in a boat ; but as none
could be procured, they set out on their
wearied horses for that city. As they ap-
proached it, the vale expanded into a plain,
variegated with vineyards, corn, olives, and
mulberry groves; but it was late before
they reached its gates, where Emily was sur-
prised to hear the busy sound of footsteps,
and the tones of musical instruments, as
well as to see the lively groups that filled
the streets, and she almost fancied herself
again at Venice; but here was no moon-
light sea — no gay gondolas dashing the
waves — no Palladian palaces, to throw en-
chantment over the fancy, and lead it into
the wilds of fairy story. The Arno rolled
through the town, but no music trembled
from balconies over its waters ; it gave only
the busy voices of sailors on board vessels
just arrived from the Mediterranean; the
melancholy heaving of the anchor, and the
boatswain's shrill whistle ; — sounds, which,
since that period, have there sunk almost
into silence. They then served to remind
Du Pont, that it was probable he might
hear of a vessel sailing soon to France from
this port, and thus be spared the trouble of
going to Leghorn. As soun as Emily had
reached the inn, he went therefore to the
quay, to make his enquiries ; but, after all
the endeavours of himself and Ludovico,
they could hear of no bark destined imme

rilius.

226

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOI/PHO.

diately for France, and the travellers return-
ed to their resting-place. Here also, Du
Pont endeavoured to learn where his regi-
ment then lay, but could acquire no informa-
tion concerning it. The travellers retired
early to rest, after the fatigues of this day,
and, on the following, rose early ; and, with-
out pausing to view the celebrated antiqui-
ties of the place, or the wonders of its hang-
ing tower, pursued their journey in the
cooler hours, through a charming country,
rich with wine, and corn, and oil. The
Apennines, no longer awful or even grand,
here softened into the beauty of sylvan and
pastoral landscape; and Emily, as she de-
scended them, looked down delighted on
Leghorn, and its spacious bay, filled with
vessels, and crowned with these beautiful
hills.

She was no less surprised and amused, on
entering this town, to find it crowded with
persons in the dresses of all nations; a scene,
which reminded her of a Venetian masque-
rade, such as she had witnessed at the time of
the Carnival ; but here was bustle without
gaiety, and noise instead of music ; while
elegance was to be looked for only in the
waving outlines of the surrounding hills.

Monsieur Du Pont, immediately on their
arrival, went down to the quay, where he
heard of several French vessels, and of one
that was to sail, in a few days, for Mar-
seilles ; from whence another vessel could be
procured, without difficulty, to take them
across the gulph of Lyons, towards Nar-
bonne, on the coast, not many leagues from
which city, he understood the convent was
seated to which Emily wished to retire. He,
therefore, immediately engaged with the
captain to take them to Marseilles, and
Emily was delighted to hear that her passage
to France was secured. Her mind was now
relieved from the terror of pursuit ; and the
pleasing hope of soon seeing her native
country — that country which held Valan-
court — restored to her spirits a degree of
ciieei fulness, such as she had scarcely known
since the death of her father. At Leghorn
also, Du Pont heard of his regiment, and
that it had embarked for France ; a circum-
stance which gave him great satisfaction, for
he could now accompany Emily thither,
without reproach to his conscience, or appre-
hension of displeasure from his commander.
During these days, he scrupulously forbore
to distress her by a mention of his passion,
and she was compelled to esteem and pity,
though she could not love him. He en-
deavoured to amuse her by shewing the
environs of the town, and they often walked
together on the sea-shore, and on the busy
quays, where Emily was frequently interest
ed by the arrival and departure of vessels,
participating in the joy of meeting friends,
and, sometimes shedding a sympathetic tear

to the sorrow of those that were separating.
It was after having witnessed a scene of the
latter kind, that she arranged the following
stanzas :

THE MARINER.

Soft came the breath of spring; smooth flow'd the
tide ;

And blue the heaven in its mirror smil'd;
The white sail trembled, swell' d, expanded wide,

The busy sailors at the anchor toil'd.

With anxious friends that shed the parting tear,
The deck was throng'd — how swift the momeuts
fly!

The vessel heaves, the farewell signs appear ;
Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye !

The last dread moment comes ! — The sailor youth
Hides the big drop, and smiles amid his pain,

Soothes his sad bride, and vows eternal truth,
" Farewell, my love — we shall — shall meetagain !"

Long on the stern, with waving hand, he stood ;

The crowded shore sinks, lessening from hi
view
As gradual glides the bark along the flood ;

His bride is seen no more — " Adieu ' — adieu'"

The breeze of eve moans low, her smile is> o'er,
Dim steals her twilight down the crimson'dwesf ,

He climbs the top-most mast, to seek once more
The far-seen coast, where all his wishes rest.

He views its dark line on the distant sky,
And fancy leads him to his little home;

He sees his weq)ing love, he hears her sigh,
He soothes her griefs, and lells of joys to come.

Eve yields tonight, the breeze to wintry gales,
In one vast shade the seas and shores repose ;

He turns his aching eyes, — his spirit fails,
The chill tear falls ; — sad to the deck he goes !

The storkii of midnight swells, the sails are furl'd,
Deep sounds the lead, but finds no friendly
shore ;

Fast o'er the waves the wretched bark ishmTd,
" O Ellen, Ellen ! we must meet no more !"

Lightnings, that shew the vast and foamy deep,
The rending thunders, as they onward roll,

The loud, loud winds, that o'er the billows sweeps-
Shake the firm nerve, appal the bravest soul I

Ah! what avails the seamen's toiling care ! —
The straining cordage bursts, the mast is riv'n

The sounds of terror groan along the air,
Then sink afar ; — the bark on rocks is driv'n !

Fierce o'er the wreck the whelming waters pass'd,
The helpless crew sunk in the roaring main!

Henry's faint accents trembled in the blast —
" Farewell, my love ! — we ne'er shall meet again "

Oft, at the calm and silent evening hour,
When summer-breezes linger on the wave,

A melancholy voice is heard to pour
Its lonely sweetness o'er poor Henry's grave; —

And oft, at midnight, airy strains are heard
Around the grove where Ellen's form is laid-

Nor is the dirge by village-maidens fear'd,
For lovers' spirits guard the holy shade !

CHAP. XXXV.

Oh! the joy

Of young ideas painted on the mind
In the warm glowing colours fancy spreads
On objects not yet known, when all is ue\» ,
And all is lovely !"

SACRED DRAMAS.

We now return to Languedoc and to the
mention of Count De Villefort, the nobleman
who succeeded to an estate of the Marquis

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

007

De Villeroi, situated near the monastery of
St. Claire. It may be recollected, that this
chateau was uninhabited, when St. Aubert
and his daughter were in the neighbour-
hood, and that the former was much affect-
ed on discovering himself to be so near
Chateau-le-Blanc, a place concerning which
the. good old La Voisin afterwards dropped
some hints that had alarmed Emily's curio-
sity.

It was in the year 1584, the beginning of
that in which St. Aubert died, that Francis
Beauveau, Count De Villefort, came into
possession of the mansions and extensive
domain called Chateau-le-Blanc, situated in
the province of Languedoc, on the shore of
the Mediterranean. This estate, which dur-
ing some centuries had belonged to his fa-
mily, now descended to him on the decease
of his relative, the Marquis De Villeroi, who
had been latterly a man of reserved manners
and austere character ; circumstances which,
together with the duties of his profession,
that often called him into the field, and had
prevented any degree of intimacy with his
cousin, the Count De Villefort. For many
years they had known little of each other,
and the count received the first intelligence
<jf his death, which happened in a distant
part of France, together with the instruments
that gave him possession of the domain of
Chateau-le-Blanc; but it was not till the
following year that he determined to visit
that estate, when he designed to pass the
autumn there. The scenes of Chateau-le-
Blanc often came to his lemembrance,
heightened by the touches which a warm
imagination gives to the recollection of early
pleasures 3 for, many years before, in the
life- time of the marchioness, and at that age
when the mind is particularly sensible to im-
pressions of gaiety and delight, he had once
visited this spot, and, though he had passed
a long intervening period amidst the vexa-
tions and tumults of public affairs, which too
frequently corrode the heart and vitiate the
taste, the shades of Languedoc and the
grandeur of its distant scenery had never
been remembered by him with indiffer-
ence.

During many years, the chateau had been
abandoned by the late marquis, and, being
inhabited only by an old servant and his
wife, had been suffered to fall much into
decay. To superintend the repairs, that
would be requisite to make it a comfortable
residence, had been a principal motive with
the count for passing the autumnal months
in Languedoc 3 and neither the remonstrances
or the tears of the countess, for on urgent
occasions she could weep, were powerful
enough to overcome his determination. She
prepared, therefore, to obey the command
v, V-cI' she could not conquer, and to resign

the gay assemblies of Paris' — where hei
beauty was generally unrivalled, and won the
applause to which her wit had but feeble
claim — for the twilight canopy of woods, the
lonely grandeur of mountains, and the so-
lemnity of gothic halls, and of long, long
galleries, which echoed only , the solitary
step of a domestic, or the measured clink
that ascended from the great clock — the
ancient monitor of the hall below. From
these melancholy expectations she endea-
voured to relieve her spirits by recollecting
all that she had ever heard concerning the
joyous vintage of the plains of Languedoc !
but there, alas! no airy forms would bound
to the gay melody of Parisian dances, and a
view of the rustic festivities of peasants
could afford little pleasure to a heart, in
which even the feelings of ordinary bene-
volence had long since decayed under the
corruption of luxury.

The count had a son and a daughter, the
children of a former marriage, who he de-
signed should accompany him to the south
of France 3 Henri, who was in his twentieth
year, was in the French service 3 and Blanche,
who was not yet eighteen, had been hitherto
confined to the convent, where she had been
placed immediately on her father's second
marriage. The present countess, who had
neither sufficient ability or inclination to
superintend the education of her daughter-
in-law, had advised this step 3 and the dread
of superior beauty had since urged her to
employ every art that might prevail on the
count to prolong the period of Blanche's
seclusion : it was, therefore, with extreme
mortification that she now understood he
would no longer submit on this subject 3 ytt
it afforded her some consolation to consider,
that, though the Lady Blanche would emerge
from the convent, the shades of the country
Mould, for some time, veil her beauty from
the public eye.

On the morning which commenced the
journey, the postillions stopped at the con-
vent, by the count's order, to take up
Blanche, whose heart beat with delight at
the prospect of novelty and freedom now
before her. As the time of her departure
drew nigh, her impatience had increased 3
and the last night, during which she counted
every note of every hour, had appeared the
most tedious of any she had ever known.
The morning light at length dawned 3 the
matin-bell rang 3 she heard the nuns de-
scending from their chambers, and she
started from a sleepless pillow, to welcome
the day which was to emancipate her from
the severities of a cloister, and introduce
her to a world, where pleasure was ever
smiling, and goodness ever blessed — where,
in short, nothing but pleasure and goodness
reigned ! When the bell of the great gate

r*ug, and the sound was followed by that of
carriage wheels, she ran, with a palpitating
heart, to her lattice, and, perceiving her fa-
ther s carriage in the court helow, danced,
with airy steps, along the gallery, where she
was met by a nun with a summons from the
abbess. In the next moment she was in the
parlour, and in the presence of the countess,
who now appeared to her as an angel that
was to lead her into happiness. But the
emotions of the countess, on beholding her,
were not in unison with those of Blanche,
who had never appeared so lovely as at this
moment, when her countenance, animated
by the lightning smile of joy, glowed with
the beauty of happy innocence.

After conversing for a few minutes with
the abbess, the countess rose to go. This
was the moment which Blanche had antici-
pated with such eager expectation, the sum-
mit from which she looked down upon the
fairy-land of happiness, and surveyed all its
enchantments. Was it a moment, then, for
tears of regret ? Yet it was so. She turned,
with an altered and dejected countenance,
to her young companions, who were come
to bid her farewell, and wept ! Even my
lady abbess, so stately and so solemn, she
saluted with a degree of sorrow, which an
hour before she would have believed it im-
possible to feel, and which may be accounted
for by considering how reluctantly we all
part, even with unpleasing objects, when
the separation is consciously for ever.—
Again she kissed the poor nuns, and then
followed the countess from that spot with

tears, which she expected to leave only with
smiles. ,

But the presence of her father, and the
variety of objects on the road, soon engaged
her attention, and dissipated the shade which
tender regret had thrown upon her spirits.
Inattentive to a conversation which was
passing between the countess and a Made-
moiselle Beam, her friendly Blanche sat, lost
in pleasiug reverie, as she watched the clouds
floating silently along the blue expanse, now
veiling the sun, and stretching their shadows
along the distant scene, and then disclosing
all his brightness. The journey continued
to give Blanche inexpressible delight; for
new scenes of nature were every instant
opening to her view, and her fancy became
stored with gay and beautiful imagery.

It was on the evening of the seventh day
that the travellers came within view of
Chateau-le-Blanc, the romantic beauty of
whose situation strongly impressed the ima-
gination of Blanche, who observed, with as-
tonishment, the sublime Pyrenean moun-
tains, which had been seen only at a distance
during the day, now rising within a tew
leagues, with their wild cliffs and immense
precipices, which the evening clouds, float-
ing round them, now disclosed, and again
veiled. The setting rays that tinged then?
snowy summits with a roseate hue, touched
their lower points with various colouring;
while the blueish tint that pervaded their
shadowy recesses gave the strength ot con-
trast to the splendor of tight. The plains
of Languedoc, blushing with the purple

THE MYSTERIES OF LbOLPHO.

220

vine, and diversified with groves of mul-
berry, almond, and olives, spread far to the
north and the east ; to the south appeared
the Mediterranean, clear as crystal, and blue
as the heavens it reflected, bearing on its
bosom vessels, whose white sails caught the
sun-beams, and gave animation to the scene.
On a high promontory, washed by the wa-
ters of the Mediterranean, stood her father's
mansion, almost secluded from the eye by
woods of intermingled pine, oak, and ches-
nut, which crowned the eminence, and sloped
towards the plains, on one side ; while, on
the other, they extended to a considerable
distance along the sea shores.

As Blanche drew nearer, the gothic fea-
tures of this ancient mansion successively
appeared : first, an embattled turret, rising
above the trees, then the broken arch of an
immense gateway retiring beyond them $
and she almost fancied herself approaching
a castle, such as is often celebrated in early
story, where the knights look out from the
battlements on some champion below, who,
clothed in black armour, comes, with his
companions, to rescue the fair lady of his
love from the oppression of his rival ; a sort
of legends, to which she had once or twice
obtained access in the library of her con-
vent, that, like many others belonging to the
monks, was stored with these relics of ro-
mantic fiction.

The carriages stopped at a gate which
led into the domain of the chateau, but
which was now fastened ; and the great bell,
that had formerly served to announce the
arrival of strangers, having long since fallen
from its station, a servant climbed over a
ruined part of the adjoining wall, to give
notice to those within of the arrival of their
lord.

As Blanche leaned from the coach win-
dow, she resigned herself to the sweet and
gentle emotions which the hour and the
scenery awakened. The sun had now left
the earth, and twilight began to darken the
mountains j while the distant waters, re-
flecting the blush that still glowed in the
west, appeared like a line of light skirting
the horizon. The low murmur of waves,
breaking on the shore, came in the breeze •,
and. now and then, the melancholy dashing
of oars was feebly heard from a distance.
She was suffered to indulge her pensive
mood, for the thoughts of the rest of the
party were silently engaged upon the sub-
jects of their several interests. Meanwhile
the countess, reflecting with regret upon
the gay parties she had left at Paris, sur-
veyed with disgust what she thought the
gloomy woods and solitary wildness of the
scene ; and, shrinking from the prospect of
being shut up in an old castle, was prepared
to meet every object with displeasure. The
feelings of Henri were somewhat similar to

those of the countess : he gave a mournful
sigh to the delights of the capital, and to
the remembrance of a lady, who, he be-
lieved, had engaged his affections, and who
had certainly fascinated his imagination ;
but the surrounding country, and the mode
of life on which he was entering, had, or
him, at least, the charm of novelty, and his
regret was softened by the gay expectations
of youth.

The gates being at length unbared, the
carriage moved slowly on, under spreading
chesnuts that almost excluded the remains
of day, following what had been formerly a
road, but which now, overgrown with luxu-
riant vegetation, could be traced only by the
boundary, formed by trees, on either side,
and which wound for half a mile among the
woods before it reached the chateau. This
was the very avenue that St. Aubert and
Emily had formerly entered, on their first
arrival in the neighbourhood, with the hope
of finding a house that would receive them
for the night, and had so abruptly quitted,
on perceiving the wildness of the place, and
a figure which the postillion had fancied was
a robber.

" What a dismal place is this !" exclaimed
the countess, as the carriage penetrated the
deeper recesses of the woods. " Surely, my
lord, you do not mean to pass all the autumn
in this barbarous spot ! One ought to bring
hither a cup of the waters of Lethe, that the
remembrance of pleasanter scenes may not
heighten, at least, the natural dreariness of
these."

* 1 shall be governed by circumstances,
madam," said the count: " this barbarous
spot was inhabited by my ancestors."

The carriage now stopped at the chateau,
where, at the door of the great hall, ap-
peared the old steward and the Parisian ser-
vants, who had been sent to prepare the
chateau, waiting to receive their lord. Lady
Blanche now perceived that the edifice was
not built entirely in the gothic style, but.
that it had additions of a more modem date.
The large and gloomy hall, however, into
which she now entered, was entirely gothic 3
and sumptuous tapestry, which it was now
too dark to distinguish, hung upon the
walls, and depictured scenes from some of
the ancient Provencal romances. A vast
gothic window, embroidered with clematis
and eglantine, that ascended to the south,
led the eye, now that the casements were
thrown open, through this verdant shade,
over a sloping lawn, to the tops of dark
woods that hung upon the brow of the pro-
montory. Beyond appeared the waters of
the Mediterranean, stretching far to thesouth
and to the east, where they were lost in the
horizon ; while to the north-east they were
bounded by the luxuriant shores of Lan-
guedoc and Provence, enriched with wood

230

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO

and gay with vines and sloping pasture;
and, to the south-west, by the majestic Py-
renees, now fading from the eye beneath the
gradual gloom.

Blanche, as she crossed the hall, stopped
a moment to observe this lovely prospect,
which the evening twilight obscured, yet
did not conceal. But she was quickly awa-
kened from the complacent delight which
this scene had diffused upon her mind by
the countess, who, discontented with every
object around, and impatient for refresh-
ment and repose, hastened forward to a large
parlour, whose cedar wainscot, narrow
pointed casements, and dark ceiling of
carved cypress wood, gave it an aspect of
peculiar gloom, which the dingy green vel-
vet of the chairs and couches, fringed with
tarnished gold, had once been designed to
enliven.

While the countess enquired for refresh
ments, the count, attended by his son, went
to look over some part of the chateau ; and
Lady Blanche reluctantly remained to wit-
ness the discontent and ill-humour of her
step-mother.

" How long have you lived in this deso-
late place ?" said her ladyship to the old
housekeeper, who came to pay her duty.—
" Above twenty years, your ladyship, on the
next feast of St. Jerome."

" How happened it that you have lived
here so long, and almost alone too ? 1 un-
derstood that the chateau had been shut up
for some years."

" Yes, madam, it was for many years after
my late lord, the count, went to the wars ;
but it is above twenty years since I and my
husband came into his service. The place
is so large, and has of late been so lonely,
that we were lost in it ; and, after some time,
we went to live in a cottage at the end of
the woods, near some of the tenants, and
came to look after the chateau every now
and then. When my lord returned to
France from the wars, he took a dislike to
the place, and never came to live here again,
and so he was satisfied with our remaining
at the cottage. Alas! alas! how the cha-
teau is changed from what it once was !
What delight my late lady used to take in
it ! I well remember when she came here a
bride, and how fine it. was ! Now it has
been neglected so long, and is gone into
such decay ! I shall never see those days
again !"

The countess appearing to be somewhat
offended by the thoughtless simplicity with
which the old woman regretted former
times, Dorothee added, " But the chateau
will now be inhabited, and cheerful again -7
not all the world could tempt me to live in
it alone."

" Well, the experiment will not be made,
I believe," said the countess, displeased that

her own silence had been unable to awe the
loquacity of this rustic old housekeeper,
now spared from further attendance by the
entrance of the count, who said he had been
viewing part of the chateau, and found that
it would require considerable repairs, and
some alterations, before it would be per-
fectly comfortable as a place of residence.
" I am sorry to hear it, my lord," replied
the countess. " And why sorry, madam ?"
" Because the place will ill repay your
trouble ; and were it even a paradise, it
would be insufferable at such a distance
from Paris "

The count made no reply, but walked
abruptly to a window. " There are windows,
my lord, but they neither admit entertain-
ment or light : they shew only a scene of
savage nature."

" I am at a loss, madam," said the count,
" to conjecture what you mean by savage
nature. Do those plains, or those woods,
or that fine expanse of water, deserve the
name ?"

" Those mountains certainly do, my
lord," rejoined the countess, pointing to the
Pyrenees ; " and this chateau, though not
a work of rude nature, is, to my taste, at
least, one of savage art." The count co-
loured highly. " This place, madam, was
the work of my ancestors," said he ; " and
you must allow me to say, that your present
conversation discovers neither good taste or
jjood manners." Blanche, now shocked at
an altercation which appeared to be increas-
ing to a serious disagreement, rose to leave
the room, when her mother's woman entered
it ; and the countess, immediately desiring
to be shewn to her own apartment, with-
drew, attended by Mademoiselle Beam.

Lady Blanche, it being not yet dark, took
this opportunity of exploring new scenes •
and, leaving the parlour, she passed from
the hall into a wide gallery, whose walls
were decorated by marble pilasters, which
supported an arched roof, composed of a
rich mosaic work. Through a distant win-
dow, that seemed to terminate the gallery,
were seen the purple clouds of evening, and
a landscape, whose features, thinly veiled
in twilight, no longer appeared distinctly,
but, blended into one grand mass, stretched
to the horizon, coloured only with a tint of
solemn grey.

The gallery terminated in a saloon, to
which the window she had seen through an
open door belonged ; but the increasing
dusk permitted her only an imperfect view
of this apartment, which seemed to be
magnificent, and of modern architecture ;
though it had been either suffered to fall
into decay, or had never been properly
finished. The windows, which were nu-
merous and large, descended low, and af-
forded a ver> extensive, and, what Blanche's

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

£3»

fancy represented to be, a very lovely
prospect ; and she stood for some time
surveying the grey obscurity, and depic-
turing imaginary woods and mountains,
vallies and rivers, on this scene of night ;
her solemn sensations rather assisted, than
interrupted, by the distant bark of a watch-
dog, and by the breeze, as it trembled
upon the light foliage of the shrubs. Now
and then appeared for a moment, among
the woods, a cottage light ; and, at length,
was heard, afar off, the evening bell of a
convent dying on the air. When she
withdrew her thoughts from these subjects
of fanciful delight, the gloom and silence
of the saloon somewhat awed her; and
having sought the door of the gallery, and
pursued for a considerable time a dark
passage, she came to a hall, but one to-
tally different from that she had formerly
seen. By the twilight, admitted through
an open portico, she could just distinguish
this apartment to be of very light and airy
architecture, and that it was paved with
white marble, pillars of which supported
the roof, that rose into arches built in the
Moorish style. While Blanche stood on
the steps of this portico, the moon rose
over the sea, and gradually disclosed, in
partial light, the beauties of the eminence
on which she stood, whence a lawn, now
rude and overgrown with high grass, sloped
to the woods, that almost surrounding the
chateau, extended in a grand sweep down
the southern sides of the promontory, to
the very margin of the ocean. Beyond the
woods, on the north side, appeared a long
tract of the plains of Languedoc ; and,
to the east, the landscape she had before
dimly seen, with the towers of a monas-
tery illumined by the moon, rising over
dark groves.

The soft and shadowy tint that over-
spread the scene, the waves undulating in
the moon-light, and their low and mea-
sured murmurs on the beach, were cir-
cumstances that united to elevate the un-
accustomed mind of Blanche to enthusiasm.

" And have 1 lived in this glorious world
so long," said she, "and never till now
beheld such a prospect — never experienced
these delights'. Every peasant girl, on
my father's domain, has viewed from her
infancy the face of nature; has ranged
at liberty her romantic wilds, while I have
been shut in a cloister from the view of
these beautiful appearances, which were
designed to enchant all eyes, and awaken
all hearts. How can the poor nuns and
friars feel the full fervour of devotion, if
they never see the sun rise or set ? Never,
till this evening, did I know what true
devotion is ; for never before did I see
the sun sink below the vast earth ! To-
morrow, for the first time in my life,

I will see it rise. O, who would live in
Paris to look upon black walls and dirty
streets, when, in the country, they might
gaze on the blue heavens, and all the green
earth !

This enthusiastic soliloquy was inter
rupted by a rustling noise in the hall ;
and, while the loneliness of the place made
her sensible to fear, she thought she per-
ceived something moving between the
pillars. For a moment she continued
silently observing it, till ashamed of hei
^ridiculous apprehensions, she re collected
courage enough to demand who was there.
" O my young lady, is it you ?" said the
old housekeeper, who was come to shut
the windows ; " I am glad it is you." The
manner in which she spoke this, with a
faint breath, rather surprised Blanche, who
said, " You seemed frightened, Dorothee,
what is the matter ?"

" No, not frightened, ma'amselle," re-
plied Dorothee, hesitating, and trying to
appear composed ; " but 1 am old, and—
a little matter startles me." The Lady
Blanche smiled at the distinction. " I am
glad that my lord the count is come to
live at the chateau, ma'amselle," con-
tinued Dorothee ; " for it has been many a
year deserted, and dreary enough;' now
the place will look a little as it used to do,
when my poor lady was alive." Blanche
enquired how long it was since the mar-
chioness died ? "Alas ! my lady !" re-
plied Dorothee, "so long— that I have
ceased to count the years ! The place, to
my mind, has mourned ever since, and I
am sure my lord's vassals have ! But you
have lost yourself, ma'amselle — shall I
shew you to the other side of the chateau ?"

Blanche enquired how long this part of
the edifice had been built. "Soon after
my lord's marriage, ma'am," replied Do-
rothee. " The# place was large enough
without this addition, for many rooms of
the old building were even then never
made use of, and my lord had a princely
household too ; but he thought the ancient
mansion gloomy, and gloomy enough it
is!" Lady Blanche now desired to be
shewn to the inhabited part of the cha-
teau ; and, as the passages were entirely
dark, Dorothee conducted her along the
edge of the lawn to the opposite side of the
edifice, where, a door opening into the
great hall, she was met by Mademoiselle
Beam. " Where have you been so long ?"
said she : " I had begun to think some
wounderful adventure had befallen you, and
that the giant of this enchanted castle, or
the ghost which no doubt haunts it, had
conveyed you through a trap-door into some
subterranean vault, whence you was never
to return."

" No," replied Blanche, laughingly, " you

2 3^

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPfia

seem to love adventures so well, that I leave
them for you to achieve."

"Well, I am willing to achieve them,
provided I am allowed to describe them."

" My dear Mademoiselle Bearn," said
Henri, as he met her at the door of the
parlour, "no ghost of these days would
be so savage as to impose silence on
you. Our ghosts are more civilized than
to condemn a lady to a purgatory severer
even than their own, be it what it may."

Mademoiselle Beam replied only by a
laugh; and, the count now entering the
room supper Was served, during which he
spoke Fittle, frequently appeared to be
abstracted from the company, and more
than once remarked, that the place was
greatly altered since he had last seen
it. Many years have intervened since
that period," said he, " and, though the
grand features of the scenery admit of no
change, they impress me with sensations
very different from those I formerly ex-
perienced."

« Did these scenes, sir," said Blanche,
"ever appear more lovely than they do
now ? To me this seems hardly possible."
The count, regarding her with a melan-
choly smile, said, "They once were as
delightful to me, as they are now to you ;
the landscape is not changed, but time has
changed me; from my mind the illusion
which gave spirit to the colouring of na-
ture, is fading fast ! If you live, my dear
Blanche, to revisit this spot at the distance
of many years, you will, perhaps, re-
member and understand the feelings of
your father."

Lady Blanche, affected by these words,
remained silent ; she looked forward to
the period which the count anticipated,
and considering, that he, who now spoke,
would then probably be no more, her
eyes, bent to the ground,, were filled with
tears. She gave her hand to her father,
who, smiling affectionately, rose from his
chair, and went to a window to conceal his
emotion.

The fatigues of the day made the party
separate at an early hour, when Blanche
retired through a long oak gallery to her
chamber, whose spacious and lofty walls,
high antiquated casements, and, what was
the effect of these, its gloomy air, did not
reconcile her to its remote situation in
this ancient building. The furniture, also,
was of ancient date ; the bed was of blue
damask, trimmed with tarnished gold lace,
and its lofty tester rose in the form of a
canopy, whence the curtains descended,
like those of such tents as are sometimes
, represented in old pictures, and, indeed,
much resembling those exhibited on the
faded tapestry with which the chamber
was, hung. To Blanche every object here

was matter of curiosity; and, taking the
light from her woman to examine the
tapestry, she perceived that it represented
scenes from the walls of Troy, though the
almost colourless worsted now mocked the
glowing actions they once had painted.
She laughed at the ludicrous absurdity she
observed, till recollecting that the hands
which had wove it, were, like the poet,
whose thoughts of fire they had attempted
to express, long since mouldered into dust,
a train of melancholy ideas passed over her
mind, and she almost wept.

Having given her woman a strict injunc-
tion to awaken her before sun-rise, she
dismissed her, and then, to dissipate the
gloom which reflection had cast upon
her spirits^ opened one of the high case-
ments, and was again cheered by the face
of living nature. The shadowy earth, the
air, and ocean — all was still. Along the
deep serene of the heavens a few light
clouds floated slowly, through whose skirts
the stars now seemed to tremble, and now
to emerge with purer splendour. Blanche's
thoughts arose involuntarily to the Great
Author of the sublime objects she con-
templated, and she breathed a prayer of
finer devotion than any she had ever uttered
beneath the vaulted roof of a cloister. At
this casement she remained till the glooms
of midnight were stretched over the pros-
pect. She then retired to her pillow, and,
" with gay visions of to-morrow," to those
sweet slumbers which health and happy
innocence only know.

" To-morrow, to fresh woods and pastures new/*
CHAP. XXXVI.

" What transport to retrace our early plays,
Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied,
The woods, the mountains, and the warbling maze
Of the wild brooks 1"

THOMSON.

Blanche's slumbers continued, till long
after the hour which she had so impatiently
anticipated ; for her woman, fatigued with
travelling, did not call her till breakfast was
nearly ready. Her disappointment, however,
was instantly forgotten, when, on opening
the casement, she saw, on one hand, the. wide
sea sparkling in the morning rays, with its
stealing sails and glancing oars •, and, on the
other, the fresh woods, the plains far-stretch-
ing, and the blue mountains, all glowing
with the splendour of the day.

As she inspired the pure breeze, health
spread a deeper blush upon her countenance,
and pleasure danced in her eyes.

« Who could first invent convents ?" said
she, " aud who could first persuade people
to go into them ? and to make religion a
pretence, too, where all that should inspire
it is so carefully shut out! God is best plea-

THE MYSTERIES OF UDQLPflCX.

?33

srd with the homage of a grateful heart ;
and When we view his glories, we feel most
grateful. I never felt so much devotion,
during the many dull years I was in the con-
vent, as I have done in the few hours that I
have been here, where I need only look on
all around me — to adore God in my inmost
heart !*

Saying this she left the window, bounded
along the gallery, and, in the next moment,
was in the breakfast-room, where the count
was already seated. The cheerfulness of a
bright sun-shine had dispersed the melan-
choly glooms of his reflections, a pleasant
smile was on his countenance, and he spoke
in an enlivening voice to Blanche, whose
heart echoed back the tones. Henri, and
soon after the countess, with Mademoiselle
Beam, appeared, and the whole party seemed
to acknowledge the influence of the scene ;
even the countess was so much re animated
as to receive the civilities of her husband with
complacency, and but once forgot her good
humour, which was when she asked whether
they had any neighbours who were likely to
make this barbarous spot more tolerable, and
whether the count believed it possible for her
to exist here without some amusement ?

Soon after breakfast the party dispersed ;
the count, ordering his steward to attend
him in the library, went to survey the con-
dition of his premises, and to visit some of
his tenants } Henri hastened with alacrity to
the shore to examine a boat that was to bear
them on a little voyage in the evening, and
to superintend the adjustment of a silk awn-
ing ; while the countess, attended by Made-
moiselle Beam, retired to an apartment on
the modern side of the chateau, which was
fitted up with airy elegance ; and, as the
windows opened upon balconies that fronted
the sea, she was there saved from a view of
the horrid Pyrenees. Here, while she re-
clined on a sofa, and, casting her languid
eyes over the ocean, which appeared beyond
the wood-tops, indulged in the luxuries of
ennui, her companion read aloud a senti-
mental novel on some fashionable system of
philosophy, for the countess was herself some-
what of a philosopher, especially as to infi-
delity; and among a certain circle her opi-
nions were waited for with impatience, and
received as doctrines.

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, hastened
to indulge, amidst the wide wood-walks
around the chateau, her new enthusiasm,
where, as she wandered under the shades, her
gay spirits gradually yielded to pensive com-
placency. Now she moved with solemn
.steps beneath the gloom of thickly inter-
woven branches, where the fresh dew still
hung upon every flower that peeped from
among the grass ; and now tripped sportive-
ly along the path on which the sun-beams
dartedand the checquered foliage trembled —

where the tender greens of the beech, the
acacia, and the mountain ash, mingling with
the solemn tints of the cedar, the pine and
cypress, exhibited as fine a contrast of colour-
ing as the majestic oak and oriental plane
did of form, to the feathery lightness of the
cork-tree and the waving grace of the poplar.
Having reached a rustic seat within a deep
recess of the woods, she rested a while, and
as her eyes caught, through a distant open-
ing, a glimpse of the blue waters of the Me-
diterranean, with the white sail gliding on its
bosom, or of the broad mountain glowing
beneath the mid-day sun, her mind experien
ced somewhat of that exquisite delight which
awakens the fancy and leads to poetry. The
hum of bees alone broke the stillness around
her, as, with other insects of various hues,
they sported gaily in the shade, or sipped
sweets from the fresh flowers ; and, while
Blanche watched a butterfly flitting from
bud to bud, she indulged herself in ima-
gining the pleasures of its short day, till she
had composed the following stanzas :

THE BUTTERFLY TO HIS LOVE.

What bow'ry dell, with fragrant breath,

Courts thee to stay thy airy flight :
Nor seek again the purple heath,

So oft the scene of gay delight ?

Long I've watch'd i' the lily 'stall,
Whose whiteness stole the uu>raiug's beam;

No flutt'ring sounds thy coming tell,
No waving wings, at distance, gleam.

But fountain fresh, nor breathing grove,

Nor sunny mead, nor blossom'd tree,
So sweet as lily's cell shall prove —

The bow'r of constant love and me.

When April buds begin to blow,

The primrose, and the hare-bell blue,
That on the verdant moss-bank grow,

With violet cups, that weep in dew ;

When wanton gales breathe through the shade,
Ana shake the blooms, and steal their sweets,

And swell the song of ev'ry glade,
I range the forest' s green retreats

There, through the tangled wood-walks play,

Where no rude urchin paces near,
Where sparely peeps the sultry day,

And light dews freshen all the air.

High on a sun-beam oft I sport,
O'er bower and fountain, vale, and hil.

Oft ev'ry blushing rlo w'ret court,
That hangs its head o'er winding rill

But these I'll leave to be thy guide,

And shew thee where the jasmine spreads

Her snowy leaf, where May rlow'rs hide,
And rose-buds rear their peeping heads

With me the mountain' s summit scale,
And taste the wild-thyme's honey'd bloom,

Whose fragan/:e, floating on the gale,
Oft leads me to the cedar's gloom.

Yet, yet, no sound comes in the breeze
YVhat shade thus dares to tempt thy stay ?

Once, me alone thou wish'd to please,
And with me only thou would'st stray.

But, while thy long delay I mourn,
And chide the sweet shades for their guile,

Thou roay'st be true, and they forlorn,
And fairy favours court thy smile.

;m

THE MYSTERIES OF UDQLPHO.

The tiny queen of fairy -land,

Who knows thy speed, hath sent thee far,
To bring, or ere the night- watch stand,

Rich essence for her shadowy car ;

Perchance her acorn-cups to fill

With nectar from the Indian rose,
Or gather, near some haunted rill,

May-dews, that lull to sleep Love's woes:

Or, o'er the mountains, bade thee fly,

To tell her fairy love to speed,
When ev'ning steals upon the sky,

To dance along the twilight mead.

But now I see thee sailing low,

Gay as the brightest flow'rs of spring,
Thy coat of blue and jet I know,

And well thy gold and purple wing.

Borne on the gale, thou com'st to me ;

O ! welcome, welcome to my home !
In lily's cell we'll live in glee,

Together o'er the mountains roam!

When Lady Blanche returned to the cha-
teau, instead of going to the apartment of
the countess, she amused herself with wan-
dering over that part of the edifice which
she had not yet examined, of which the most
aucient first attracted her curiosity, for,
though what she had seen of the modern was
gay and elegant, there was something in the
former more interesting to her imagination.
Having passed up the great staircase and
through the oak gallery, she entered upon a
long suite of chambers, whose walls were
either hung with tapestry or wainscoted with
cedar, the furniture of which looked almost
as ancient as the rooms themselves ; the
spacious fire-places, where no mark of social
cheer remained, presented an image of cold
desolation j and the whole suite had so much
the air of neglect and desertion, that it seem-
ed as if the venerable persons, whose por-
traits hung upon the walls, had been the
last to inhabit them.

On leaving these rooms, she found herself
in another gallery, one end of which was ter-
minated by a back staircase, and the other
by a door that seemed to communicate with
the north side of the chateau, but which
being fastened, she descended ihe staircase,
and, opening a door in the wall, a few steps
down, found herself in a small square room,
that formed part of the west turret of the
castle. Three windows presented each a
separate and beautiful prospect ; that to the
north overlooking Languedoc ; another to
the west, the hills ascending towards the Py-
renees, whose awful summits crowned the
landscape ; and a third, fronting the south,
gave the Mediterranean, and a part of the
wild shores of Rousillon, to the eye.

Having left the turret and descended the
narrow staircase, she found herself in a
dusky passage, where she wandered, unable
to find her way, till impatience yielded to
apprehension, and she called for assistance.
Presently steps approached, and light glim
mered through a door at the other extremity
of the passage, which was opened with cau-
tion by some person, who did not venture

beyond it, and whom Blanche observed in
silence, till the door was closing, when she
called aloud, and, hastening towards it, per
ceived the old housekeeper.

" Dear ma'amselle ! is it you ?" said Do
rothee. "How could you find your way
hither ?" Had Blanche been less occupied
by her own fears, she would probably have
observed the strong expressions of terror and
surprise on Dorothee's countenance, who
now led her through a long succession of
passages and rooms, that looked as if they
had been uninhabited for a century, till they
reached that appropriated to the house-
keeper, where Dorothee entreated she wou Id
sit down and take refreshment. Blanche ac-
cepted the sweetmeats offered to her, men-
tioned her discovery of the pleasant turret,
and her wish to appropriate it to her own
use. Whether Dorothee's taste was not so
sensible to the beauties of landscape as her
young lady's, or that the constant view of
lovely scenery had deadened it, she forbore
to praise the subject of Blanche's enthusiasm,
which, however, her silence did not repress.
To Lady Blanche's enquiry, of whither the
door she had found fastened at the end of
the gallery led, she replied, . that it
opened to a suite of rooms, which had not
been entered during many years; " For,"
added she, " my late lady died in one of
them, and 1 could never find in my heart
to go into them since."

Blanche, though she wished to see those
chambers, forbore, on observing that Doro-
thee's eyes were filled with tears, to ask her
to unlock them, and soon after, went to dies 5
for dinner, at which the whole party met in
good spirits and good humour, except the
countess, whose vacant mind, overcome by
the languor of idleness, would neither suffer
her to be happy herself, or to contribute to
the happiness of others. Mademoiselle Beam,
attempting to be witty, directed her badi-
nage against Henri, who answered because
he could not well avoid it, rather than from
any inclination to notice her, whose live-
liness sometimes amused, but whose conceit
and insensibility often disgusted him.

The cheerfulness with which Blanche re-
joined the .party vanished, on her reaching
the margin of the sea 3 she gazed with ap-
prehension upon the immense expanse of
waters, which, at a distance, she had beheld
only with delight and astonishment, and it
was by a strong effort that she so far over-
came her fears as to follow her father into
the boat.

As she silently surveyed the vast horizon,
bending round the distant verge of the ocean,
an emotion of sublimest rapture struggled
to overcome a sense of personal danger. A
light breeze played on the water, and on the
silk awning of the boat, and waved the fo
liage of the receding woods, that crowned

tlin MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

«2,;f>

the cliffs for many miles, and which the count
surveyed with the pride of conscious pro-
perty, as well as with the eye of taste.

At some distance, among these woods,
stood a pavilion, which had once been the
scene of social gaiety, and which its situation
still made one of romantic beauty. Thither
the eount had ordered coffee and other re-
freshment to be carried, and thither the sail-
ors now steered their course, following the
windings of the shore round many a woody
promontory and circling bay; while the pen-
sive tones of horns and other wind instru-
ments, played by the attendants in a distant
boat, echoed among the rocks, and died along
the waves. Blanche had now subdued her
fears ; a delightful tranquillity stole over
her mind, and held her in silence ; and she
was too happy even to remember the con-
vent, or her former sorrows, as subjects of
comparison with her present felicity.

The countess felt less unhappy than she
had done since the moment of her leaving
Paris ; for her mind was now under some
degree of restraint ; she feared to indulge
its wayward humours, and even wished to
recover the count's good opinion. On his
family, and on the surrounding scene, he
looked with tempered pleasure and bene-
volent satisfaction, while his son exhibited
the gay spirits of youth, anticipating new
delights, and regretless of those that were
passed.

After near an hour's rowing, the party
landed, and ascended a little path, over-
grown with vegetation. At a little distance
from the point of the eminence, writhin the
shadowy recess of the woods, appeared the
pavilion, which Blanche preceived, as she
caught a glimpse of its portico between
the trees, to be built of variegated mar-
ble. As she followed the countess, she
often turned her eyes with rapture towards
the ocean, seen beneath the dark foliage
far below, and from thence upon the deep
woods, whose silence and impenetrable
gloom awakened emotions more solemn, but
scarcely less delightful.

The pavilion had been prepared, as far as
was possible, on a very short notice, for the
reception of its visitors; but the faded
colours of its painted walls and ceiling, and
the decayed drapery of its once magnificent
furniture, declared how long it had been ne-
glected, and abandoned to the empire of the
changing seasons. While the party partook
of a collation of fruit, and coffee, the horns,
placed in a distant part of the woods, where
an echo sweetened and prolonged their me-
lancholy tones, broke softly on the stillness
of the scene. This spot seemed to attract
even the admiration of the countess, or, per-
haps, it was merely the pleasure of planning
furniture and decorations, that made her

dwell so long on the necessity of repairing
and adorning it ; while the count, never
happier than when he saw her mind engaged
by natural and simple objects, acquiesced in
all her designs concerning the pavilion.
The paintings on the walls and coved cei-
lings were to be renewed ; the canopies and
sofas were to be light green damasks ; mar-
ble statues of wood-nymphs, bearing on
their heads baskets of living flowers, were to
adorn the recesses between the windows,
which, descending to the ground, were to
admit to every part of the room, (and
it was of octagonal form) the various
landscape. One window opened upon a
romantic glade, where the eye roved among
woody recesses, and the scene was bounded
only by a lengthened pomp of groves ; from
another, the woods receding, disclosed the
distant summits of the Pyrenees ; a third
fronted an avenue, beyond which the grey
towers of Chateau-le-Blanc, and a pictu-
resque part of its ruin, were seen partially
among the foliage; while a fourth gave,
between the trees, a glimpse of the green
pastures and villages that diversify the banks
of the Aude. The Mediterranean, with the
bold cliffs that overlooked its shores, were
the grand objects of a fifth window, and the
others gave, in different points of view, the
wild scenery of the woods.

After wandering for some time in these,
the party returned to the shore, and embark-
ed ; and the beauty of the evening tempting
them to extend their excursion, they pro-
ceeded further up the bay. A dead calm
had succeeded the light breeze that wafted
them hither, arid the men took to their oars.
Around, the waters were spread into one vast
expanse of polished mirror, reflecting the
grey cliffs and feathery woods that overhung
its surface, the glow of the western horizon,
and the dark clouds that came slowly from
the east. Blanche loved to see the dipping
oars imprint the water, and to watch the
spreading circles they left, which gave a
tremulous motion to the reflected landscape,
without destroying the harmony of its features.

Above the darkness of the woods, her eye
now caught a cluster of high towers, touched
with the splendour of the setting rays ; and,
soon after, the horns being then silent, she
heard the faint swell of choral voices from a
distance.

" What voices are those upon the air ?"
said the count, looking round and listening ;
— but the strain had ceased. " It seemed
to be a vesper hymn which I have often
heard in my convent," said Blanche.

" We are near the monastery, then," ob-
served the count ; and the boat soon after
doubling a lofty head-land, the monastery of
St. Claire appeared, seated near the margin
of the sea ; where the cliffs suddenly sinking,

'236

TU11 MYSTERIES OF UI)OUJM(1.

formed a low shore within a small bay,
almost encircled with woods, among which
partial features of the edifice were seen — the
great gate and gothic window of the hall,
the cloisters, and the side of a chapel more
remote ; while a venerable arch, which had
once led to a part of the fabric now demo-
lished, stood a majestic ruin, detached from
the main building, beyond which appeared
a grand perspective of the woods. On the
grey walls the moss had fastened, and round
the pointed windows of the chapel the ivy
and the briony hung in many a fantastic
wreath.

All without was silent and forsaken; but
while Blanche gazed with admiration on
this venerahle pile, whose effect was height-
ened by the strong lights and shadows thrown
athwart it by a cloudy sunset, a sound of
many voices, slowly chanting, arose from
within. The count bade his men rest on
their oars, The monks were singing the
hymn of vespers, and some female voices
mingled with the strain ; which rose, by soft
degrees, till the high organ and the choral
sounds swelled into full and solemn harmony.
The strain soon after dropped into sudden
silence, and was renewed in a low and still
more solemn key ; till, at length, the holy
chorus died away, and was heard no more.— -
Blanche sighed ; tears trembled in her eyes ;
and her thoughts seemed wafted with the
sounds to heaven. While a rapt stillness
prevailed in the boat, a train of friars and
then of nuns, veiled in white, issued from
the cloisters, and passed under the shade of
the woods to the main body of the edifice.

The countess was the first of her party to
awakeu from this pause of silence.

" These dismal hymns and friars make one
quite melancholy," said she; "twilight is
coming on : pray let ns return, or if will be
dark before we get home."

The count, looking up, now perceived that
the twilight of evening was anticipated by
an approaching storm. In the east a tem-
pest was collecting ; a heavy gloom came
on, opposing and contrasting the glowing
splendour of the setting sun ; the clamorous
sea-fowl skimmed in fleet circles upon the
surface of the sea, dipping their light pinions
in the wave as they fled away in search of
shelter. The boatmenspulled hard at their
oars. But the thunder that now muttered
at a distance, and the heavy drops that began
to dimple the water, made the count deter-
mine to put back to the monastery for shel-
ter ; and the course of the boat was immedi-
ately changed. As the clouds approached
the west, their lurid darkness changed to a
ruddy glow, which, by reflection, seemed to
fire the tops of the woods and the shattered
owers of the monastery.

The appearance of the heavens alarmed
the countess and Mademoiselle Beam 3 whose

expressions of apprehension distressed tfre
count, and perplexed his men ; while
Blanche continued silent— now agitated with
fear, and now with admiration, as she view-
ed the grandeur of the clouds, and their
effect on the scenery, and listened to the
long, long peals of thunder that rolled
through the air.

The boat having reached the lawn be-
fore the monastery, the count sent a ser-
vant to announce his arrival, and to en-
treat the shelter of the superior; who, soon
after, appeared at the great gate attended
by several monks ; while the servant return-
ed with a message, expressive at once of
hospitality and pride — but of pride dis*.
guised in* submission. The party imme-
diately disembarked ; and, having hastily
crossed the lawn — for the shower was now
heavy — were received at the gate by the
superior ; who, as they entered, stretched
forth his hands and gave his blessing ; and
they passed into the great hall, where the
lady abbess waited, attended by several
nuns, clothed like herself, in black, and
veiled in white. The "veil of the abbess
was, however, thrown half back, and dis-
covered a countenance, whose chaste dig-
nity was sweetened by the smile of welcome
with which she addressed the countess ;
whom she led, with Blanche and Made-
moiselle Beam, into the convent parlour,
while the count and Henri were conducted
by the superior to the refectory.

The countess, fatigued and discontented,
received the politeness of the abbess with
careless haughtiness, and had followed her
with indolent steps to the parlour ; over
which the painted casements, and wainscot
of larch wood, threw, at all times, a melan-
choly shade, and where the gloom of even-
ing now loured almost to darkness.

While the lady abbess ordered refresh-
ment, and conversed with the countess,
Blanche withdrew to a window ; the lower
panes of which being without painting,
allowed her to observe the progress of the
storm over the Mediterranean ; whose dark
waves that had so lately slept, now came
boldly swelling, in long succession, to the
shore, where they burst in white foam, and
threw up a high spray over the rocks. A
red sulphureous tint overspread the long
line of clouds that hung above the western
horizon ; beneath whose dark skirts the sun
looking out, illumined the distant shores
of Languedoc, as well as the tufted sum
mits of the nearer woods, and shed a par-
tial gleam on the western waves. The
rest of the scene was in deep gloom, ex-
cept where a sun-beam, darting between
the clouds, glanced on the white wings of
the sea-fowl that circled high among them,
or touched the swelling sail of a vessel
which was seen labouring in the storm.

Blanche, for some time, anxiously watched
the progress of the hark, as it threw the
waves in foam around it ; and, as the light-
nings flashed, looked to the opening hea-
vens with many a sigh for the fate of the
poor mariners.

The sun at length set, and the heavy
clouds which had long impended, dropped
over the splendour of his course : the
vessel, however, was yet dimly seen ; and
Blanche continued to observe it, till the
quick succession of flashes, lighting up the
gloom of the whole horizon, warned her to
retire from the window, and she joined the
abbess ; who, having exhausted all her topics
of conversation with the countess, had now
leisure to notice her.

But their discourse was interrupted by
tremendous peals of thunder ; and the
bell of the monastery soon after ringing
out, summoned the inhabitants to prayer.
As Blanche passed the windows, she gave
another look to the ocean ; where, by the
momentary flash that illumined the vast
body of the waters, she distinguished the
vessel she had observed before, amidst a sea
of foam, breaking the billows — the mast
now bowing to the waves and then rising
high in air.

She sighed fervently as she gazed, and
then followed the lady abbess and the
countess to the chapel. Meanwhile, some
of the count's servants having gone by land
to the chateau for carriages, returned soon
after vespers had concluded ; when, the
storm being somewhat abated, the count
and his family returned home. Blanche was
surprised to discover how much the wind*
mgs of the shore had deceived her con-

cerning the distance of the chateau from
the monastery ; whose vesper-bell she had
heard on the preceding evening from the
windows of the west saloon, and whose
towers she would also have seen from thence,
had not twilight veiled them.

On their arrival at the chateau, the
countess, affecting more fatigue than she
really felt, withdrew to her apartment, and
the count, with his daughter and Henri,
went to the supper-room ; where they had
not been long, when they heard, in a
pause of the gust, a firing of guns ; which
the count understanding to be signals of
distress from some vessel in the storm, went
to a window, that opened towards the
Mediterranean, to observe further ; but the
sea was now involved in utter darkness, and
the loud howlings of the tempest had again
overcome every other sound. Blanche,
remembering the bark which she had before
seen, now joined her father, with trembling
anxiety. In a few moments, the report
of guns 'was again borne along the wind,
and as suddenly wafted away : a tremendous
burst of thunder followed ; and, in the flash
that had preceded it, and which seemed to
quiver over the whole surface of the waters,
a vessel was discovered, tossing amidst the
white foam of the waves, at some distance
from the shore. Impenetrable darkness
again involved the scene 5 but soon a second
flash showed the bark, with one sail un-
furled, driving towards the coast. Blanche
hung upon her father's arm, with looks
full of the agony of united tenor and pity 5
which were unnecessary to awaken the
heart of the count, who gazed upon the sea
with a piteous expression) and, perceiving

437

238

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

that no boat could live in the storm, for-
bore to send one ; but he gave orders to his
people to carry torches out upon the cliffs —
hoping they might prove a kind of beacon
to the vessel, or, at least, warn the crew of
the rocks they were approaching. While
Henri went out to direct on what part of
the cliffs the lights should appear, Blanche
remained with her father at the window,
catching, every now and then, as the light-
nings flashed, a glimpse of the vessel 5 and
she soon saw, with reviving hope, the torches
flaming on the blackness of night, and, as
they waved over the cliffs, casting a red
gleam on the gasping billows. When the
firing of guns was repeated, the torches
were tossed high in the air, as if answering
the signal, and the firing was then redoubled ;
but though the wind bore the sound away,
she fancied, as the lightnings glanced, that
the vessel was much nearer the shore.

The count's servants were now seen, run-
ning to and fro, on the rocks — some ven-
turing almost to the point of the crags, and
bending over, held out their torches fastened
to long poles •, while others, whose steps
could be traced only by the course of the
lights, descended the steep and dangerous
path that wound to the margin of the sea,
and, with loud halloos, hailed the mariners ;
whose shrill whistle, and then feeble voices,
were heard, at intervals, mingling with the
storm. Sudden shouts from the people on
the rocks increased the anxiety of Blanche
to an almost intolerable degree : but her
suspense, concerning the fate of the mari-
ners, was soon over, when Henri, running
breathless into the room, told that the vessel
was anchored in the bay below, but in so
shattered a condition that it was feared she
would part before the crew could disembark.
The count immediately gave orders for his
own boats to assist in bringing them to shore,
and that such of these unfortunate strangers
as could not be accommodated in the ad-
jacent hamlet, should be entertained at the
chateau. Among the latter, .were Emily
St. Aubert, Monsieur Du Pont, Ludovico,
and Annette ; who, having embarked at
Leghorn, and reached Marseilles, were
from thence crossing the Gulf of Lyons
when this storm overtook them. They
were received by the count with his usual
benignity ; who, though Emily wished to
have proceeded immediately to the monas-
tery of St. Claire, would not allow her to
leave the chateau that night ; and, indeed,
the terror and fatigue she had suffered,
would scarcely have permitted her to go
farther.

In Monsieur Du Pont the count disco-
vered an old acquaintance, and much joy
and congratulation passed between them;
after which Emily was introduced by name
to the count's family, whose hospitable be-
nevolence dissipated the little embarrass-

ment which her situation had occasioned
her ; and the party were soon seated at the
supper-table. The unaffected kindness of
Blanche, and the lively joy she expressed
on the escape of the strangers, for whom
her pity had been so much interested, gra-
dually revived Emily's languid spirits ; and
Du Pont, relieved from his terrors for her
and for himself, feljt the full contrast, be-
tween his late situation on a dark and tre-
mendous ocean, and his present one, in a
cheerful mansion, where he was surrounded
with plenty, elegance, and smiles of wel-
come.

Annette, meanwhile, in the servant's hall,
was telling of all the dangers she had en-
countered, and congratulating herself so
heartily upon her own and Ludovico's es-
cape, and on her present comforts, that
she often made all that part of the chateau
ring with merriment and laughter. Ludo-
vico's spirits were as gay as her own ; but
he had discretion enough to restrain them,
and tried to check her's, though in vain ;
till her laughter, at length, ascended to
my lady*s chamber 5 who sent to inquire
what occasioned so much uproar in the
chateau, and to command silence.

Emily withdrew early to seek the repose
she so much required 5 but her pillow was
long a sleepless one. On this her return
to her native country, many interesting re-
membrances were awakened ; all the events
and sufferings she had experienced since
she quitted it, came in long succession to
her fancy, and were chased only by the
image of Valancourt; with whom to be-
lieve herself once more in the same land,
after they had been so long and so distantly
separated, gave her emotions of indescri-
bable joy \ but which afterwards yielded to
anxiety and apprehension, when she consi-
dered the long period that had elapsed
since any letter had passed between them,
and how much might have happened in
this interval to affect her future peace.
But the thought that Valancourt might be
now no more, or, it" living, might have for-
gotten her, was so very terrible to her heart,
that she would scarcely suffer herself to
pause upon the possibility. She deter-
mined to inform him, on the following
day, of her arrival in France •, which it was
scarcely possible he could know but by a
letter from herself, and, after soothing her
spirits with the hope of soon hearing that
he was well, and unchanged in his affec-
tions, she, at length, sunk to repose.

CHAP. XXXVII.

"Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia, silver bright,
In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly,
With Freedom by my side, and soft-ey'd Melan-
choly." GRAY.

The Lady Blanche was so much interested
for Emily, that, upon hearing she was going

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

•2^9

to reside in the neighbouring convent, she
requested the count would invite her to
lengthen her stay at the chateau. " And you
know, my dear sir," added Blanche, " how
delighted I shall be with such a companion ;
for, at present, I have no friend to walk or
to read with, since Mademoiselle Beam is
my mamma's friend only."

The count smiled at the youthful sim-
plicity with which his daughter yielded to
first impressions ; and, though he chose to
warn her of their danger, he silently ap-
plauded the benevolence that could thus
readily expand in confidence to a stranger.
He had observed Emily with attention on
the preceding evening, and was as much
pleased with her as it was possible he could
lie with any person on so short an acquaint-
ance : the mention made of her by Mons.
l>u Pont had also given him a favourable
impression of Emily ; but, extremely cau-
tious as to those whom he introduced to the
intimacy of his daughter, he determined, on
hearing that the former was no stranger at
the convent of St. Claire, to visit the ab-
bess ; and, if her account corresponded with
his wish, to invite Emily to pass some time
at the chateau. On this subject he was in-
fluenced by a consideration of the Lady
Blanche's welfare, still more than by either
a wish to oblige her, or to befriend the or-
phan Emily •, for whom, however, he felt
considerably interested.

On the following morning Emily was too
much fatigued to appear j but Mons. Du
Pont was at the breakfast-table when the
count entered the room, who pressed him,
as his former acquaintance, and the son of
a very old friend, to prolong his stay at the
chateau ; an invitation which Du Pont wil-
lingly accepted, since it would allow him to
be near Emily ; and, though he was not
conscious of encouraging a hope that she
M'ould ever return his affection, he had not
fortitude enough to attempt, at present, to
overcome it.

Emily, when she was somewhat recovered,
wandered with her new friend over the
grounds belonging to the chateau, as much
delighted with the surrounding views, as
Blanche, in the benevolence of her heart, had
wished : from thence she perceived, beyond
the woods, the towers of the monastery, and
remarked that it was to this convent she de-
signed to go.

u Ah !" said Blanche, with surprise, " I
am but just released from a convent, and
would you go into one ? If you could know
what pleasure I feel in wandering here, at
liberty, and in seeing the sky, and the fields,
and the woods, all around me, I think you
would not." Emily, smiling at the warmth
with which the Lady Blanche spoke, ob-
served, that she did not mean to confine her-
self to a convent for life.

" No, you may not intend it now," said
Blanche ; " but you do not know to what
the nuns may persuade you to consent. I
know how kind they will appear, and how
happy, for I have seen too much of their
art.""

When they returned to the chateau, Lady
Blanche conducted Emily to her favourite
turret ; and from thence they rambled
through the ancient chambers, which Blanche
had visited before. Emily was amused by
observing the structure of these apartments,
and the fashion of their old, but still mag-
nificent furniture, and by comparing them
with those of the castle of Udolpho, which
were yet more antique and grotesque. She
was also interested by Dorothee, the house-
keeper, who attended them, whose appear-
ance was almost as antique as the objects
around her, and who seemed no less inte-
rested by Emily ; on whom she frequently
gazed with so much deep attention, as
scarcely to hear what was said to her.

While Emily looked from one of the case-
ments, she perceived, with surprise, some
objects that were familiar to her memory-—
the fields and woods, with the gleaming
brook, which she had passed with La Voisin,
one evening, soon after the death of Mons.
St. Aubert, in her way from the monastery
to the cottage ; and she now knew this to be
the chateau which he had then avoided, and
concerning which he had dropped some re-
markable hints.

Shocked by this discovery, yet scarcely
knowing why, she mused for some time in
silence, and remembered the emotion which
her father had betrayed on finding himself
so near this mansion, and some other cir-
cumstances of his conduct, that now greatly
interested her. The music, too, which she
had formerly heard, and respecting which
La Voisin had given such an odd account,
occurred to her ; and, desirous of knowing
more concerning it, she asked Dorothee
whether it returned at midnight, as usual,
and whether the musician had yet been dis-
covered.

" Yes, ma'amselle," replied Dorothee *,
" that music is still heard, but the musician
has never been found out, nor ever will, 1
believe ; though there are some people who
can guess."

" Indeed !" said Emily ; " then why do
they not pursue the inquiry?"

" Ah, young lady ! inquiry enough has
been made — but who can pursue a spirit ?"

Emily smiled ; and, remembering how
lately she had suffered herself to be led away
by superstition, determined now to resist its
contagion 5—- yet, in spite of her efforts, she
felt awe mingled with her curiosity on this
subject ; and Blanche, who had hitherto lis-
tened in silence, now inquired what this
music was, and how long it had been heard.

240

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

" Ever since the death of my lady, ma-
dam," replied Dorothee.

" Why, the place is not haunted, surely ?**
said Blanche, between jesting and serious-
ness.

'/ I have heard that music almost ever
since my dear lady died,1* continued Doro-
thee, " and never before then. But that is
nothing to some things I could tell of."

* Do, pray, tell them, then," said Lady
Blanche, now more in earnest than in jest :
" I am much interested.; for I have heard
sister Henriette, and sister Sophie, in the
convent, tell of such strange appearances
which they themselves had witnessed !" —

" You never heard, my lady, I suppose,
what made us leave the chateau, and go
and live in a cottage," said Dorothee.
" Never !" replied Blanche, with impa-
tience.

" Nor the reason that my lord the Mar-
quis"— Dorothee checked herself, hesitated,
and then endeavoured to change the
topic; but the curiosity of Blanche was
too much awakened to suffer the subject
thus easily to escape her, and she pressed
the old housekeeper to proceed with her
account : upon whom, however, no en-
treaties could prevail ; and it. was evident,
that she was alarmed for the imprudence
into which she had already betrayed herself.
" I perceive," said Emily, smiling, " that
all old mansions are haunted : I am lately
come from a place of wonders ; but un-
luckily, since 1 left it, I have heard almost
all of them explained."

Blanche was silent ; Dorothee looked
grave and sighed : and Emily felt herself
still inclined to believe more of the won-
derful than she chose to acknowledge.
Just then she remembered the spectacle
she had witnessed in a chamber of Udol-
pho, and, by an odd kind of coincidence,
the alarming words that had accidentally
met her eye in the MS. papers which she
had destroyed in obedience to the com-
mand of her father ; and she shuddered at
the meaning they seemed to impart, almost
as much as at the horrible appearance dis-
closed by the black veil.

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, unable
to prevail with Dorothee to explain the sub-
ject of her late hints, had desired, on
reaching the door that terminated the gal-
lery, and which she found fastened on the
preceding day, to see the suite of rooms
beyond. " Dear young lady, said the house-
keeper, " I have told you my reason for
not opening them : I have never seen them
since my dear lady died ; and it would go
hard with me to see them now. Pray,
madam, do not ask me again."

" Certaiuly 1 will not," replied Blanche,
u if that is really your objection/*

" Alas, it is," said the old woman ; " we

all loved her well, and I shall always grieve
for her. Time runs round ! — it is now many
years since she died ; but I remember
every thing that happened then, as if it
was but yesterday. Many things that have
passed of late years are gone quite from
my memory ; while those so long ago I
can see as if in a glass." She paused ;
but afterwards, as they walked up the
gallery, added of Emily, "This young
lady sometimes brings the late marchioness
to my mind : 1 can remember when she
looked just as blooming, and very like
her when she smiles. Poor lady ! how
gay she was when she first came to the
chateau !"

" And was she not gay afterwards ?"
said Blanche.

Dorothee shook her head ; and Emily
observed her, Avith eyes strongly expressive
of the interest she now felt. " Let*us sit
down in this window," said the Lady
Blanche, on reaching the opposite end of
the gallery : " and pray, Dorothee, if it is
not painful to you, tell us something more
about the marchioness. I should like to
look into the glass you spoke of just now,
and see a few of the circumstances which
you say often pass over it."

** No, my lady, replied " Dorothee ; " if
you knew as much as I do, you would not ;
for you would find there a dismal train of
them. I often wish I could shut them out,
but they will rise to my mind. I see
my dear lady on her death-bed — her very
look, — and remember all she said : — it was
a terrible scene !"

"Why was it so terrible?" said Emily
with emotion.

" Ah, dear young lady ! is not death
always terrible ?" replied Dorothee.

To some further inquiries of Blanche,
Dorothee was silent; and Emily, observ-
ing the tears in her eyes, forbore to urge
the subject, and endeavoured to withdraw
the attention of her young friend to some
object in the gardens ; where the count,
with the countess and Monsieur Du Pont,
appearing, they went down to join them.

When he perceived Emily, he advanced
to meet her, and presented her to the
countess in a manner so benign, that it
recalled most powerfully to her mind the
idea of her father ; and she felt more
gratitude to him than embarrassment to-
wards the countess; who, however, re-
ceived her with one of those fascinating
smiles which her caprice sometimes al-
lowed her to assume, and which was now
the result of a conversation the count had
held with her concerning Emily* What-
ever this might be, or whatever had passep
in his conversation with the lady abbess,
whom he had just visited, esteem and
kindness were strongly apparent in his

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO

211

manner when he addressed Emily ; who ex-
perienced that sweet emotion which arises
from the consciousness of possessing the ap-
probation of the good ; for to the count's
worth she had been inclined to yield her con-
fidence almost from the first moment in
which she had seen him.

Before she could finish her acknowledge-
ments for the hospitality she had received,
and mention her design of going immedi-
ately to the convent, she was interrupted by
an invitation to lengthen her stay at the
chateau 5 which was pressed by the count
and the countess, with an appearance of
such friendly sincerity, that, though she
much wished to see her old friends at the
monastery, and to sigh once more over her
father's grave, she consented to remain a
few days at the chateau.

To the abbess, however, she immediately
wrote, mentioning her arrival in Languedoc,
and her wish to be received into the convent
as a boarder : she also sent letters to Mon-
sieur Quesnel, and to Valancourt, whom she
merely informed of her arrival in France 5
and, as she knew not where the latter might
be stationed, she directed her letter to his
brother's seat in Gascony.

In the evening, Lady Blanche and Mons.
Du Pont walked with Emily to the cottage of
La Voisin j which she had now a melancholy
pleasure in approaching 5 for time had soft-
eued her grief for the loss of St. Aubert,
though it could not annihilate it, and she felt
a soothing sadness in indulging the recol-
lections which this scene recalled. La Voisin
was still living, and seemed to enjoy, as
much as formerly, the tranquil evening of a
blameless life. He was sitting at the door of
his cottage, watching some of his grandchil-
dren playing on the grass before him, and
now and then, with a laugh or a commenda-
tion, encouraging their sports. He imme-
diately recollected Emily, whom he was
much pleased to see ; and she was as rejoiced
to hear that he had not lost one of his family
(since her departure.

" Yes, ma'amselle," said the old man,
" we all live merrily together still, thank
God ! and I believe there is not a happier
family to be found in Languedoc than
ourV

Emily did not trust herself in the cham-
ber where St. Aubert died ; and, after half
an hour's conversation with La Voisin and
his family, she left the cottage.

During these the first days of her stay at
Chateau-le-Blanc, she was often affected, by
observing the deep but silent melancholy
which at limes stole over Du Pont 5 and
Emily, pitying the self-delusion which dis-
armed him of the will to depart, determined
to withdraw herself as soon as the respect
she owed the Count and Countess De Ville-
fbrt would permit.
R

The dejection of his friend soon alarmed
the anxiety of the count ; to whom Du Pont
at length confided the secret of his hopeless
affection; which, however, the former could
only commiserate, though he secretly de-
termined to befriend his suit, if an opportu-
nity of doing so should ever occur. Consi-
dering the dangerous situation of Du Pont,
he but feebly opposed his intention of leav-
ing Chateau-le-Blanc on the following day,
but drew from him a promise of a longer
visit when he could return with safety to his
peace. Emily herself, though she could not
encourage his affection, esteemed him, both
for the many virtues he possessed, and
for the services she had received from
him ; and it was not without tender emo-
tions of gratitude and pity, that she now saw
him depart for his family-seat in Gascony ;
while he took leave of her with a countenance
so expressive of love and grief, as to interest
the count more warmly in his cause than be-
fore.

In a few days, Emily also left the cha-
teau .5 but not before the count and countess
had received her promise to repeat her visit
very soon ; and she was welcomed by the
abbess with the same maternal kindness she
had formerly experienced, and by the nuns
with much expression of regard. The well-
known scenes of the convent occasioned her
many melancholy recollections ; but with
these were mingled others, that inspired gra-
titude for having escaped the various dan
gers that had pursued her since she quitted
it, and for the good which she yet possessed ;
and, though she once more ^ept over her
father's grave with tears of tender affection,
her grief was softened from its former acute-
ness..

Some time after her return to the monas-
tery, she received a letter from her uncle,
Mons. Quesnel, in answer to information
that she had arrived in France, and to her
inquiries concerning such of her affairs as
he had undertaken to conduct during her
absence, especially as to the period for
which La Vallee had been let ; whither it
was her wish to return, if it should appear
that her income would permit her to do so.
The reply of Mons. Quesnel was cold and
formal as she expected, expressing neither
concern for the evils she had suffered, nor
pleasure that she was now removed from
them ; nor did he allow the opportunity to
pass of reproving her for her rejection of
Count Morano, whom he affected still to
believe a man of honour and fortune ; nor
of vehemently declaiming against Montoni,
to whom he had always, till now, felt him-
self to be inferior. On Emily's pecuniary
concerns he was not very explicit : he in
formed her, however, that the term for
which La Vallee had been engaged was
nearly expired 5 but, without inviting her 10

«4*

THE M /STEKIES Ol UDOU'lIO.

his own house, added, that her circum-
stances would by no means allow her to
reside there, and earnestly advised her to
remain, for the present, in the convent of St.
Claire. To her inquiries respecting poor
old Theresa, her late father's servant, he
gave no answer. In the postscript to his let-
ter, Monsieur Quesnel mentioned M. Mot-
teville, in whose hands the late St. Aubert
had placed the chief of his personal property,
as being likely to arrange his affairs nearly
to the satisfaction of his creditors, and that
Emily would recover much more of her for-
tune than she had formerly reason to expect.
The letter also inclosed to Emily an order
upon a merchant at Narbonne for a small
sum of money.

The tranquillity of the monastery, and the
liberty she was suffered to enjoy, in wander-
ing among tne woods and shores of this de-
lightful province, gradually restored her
spirits to their natural tone ; except that
anxiety would sometimes intrude concerning
Valancourt, as the time approached when it
was possible that she mi'ght receive an an-
swer to her letter.

CHAP. XXXVIII.

" As when a wave, that from a cloud impends,
And, swell'd with tempests, on the ship descends :
White are the decks with foam; the winds, aloud,
Howl o'er the masts, and sing through ev'ry shroud*
Pale, trembling, tir'd, the sailors freeze with fears;
And instant death on every wave appears."

POPE'S HOMER.

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, who was
left much alone, become impatient for the
company of her new friend, whom she wish-
ed to observe sharing in the delight she re-
ceived from the beautiful scenery around.
She had now no person to whom she could
express her admiration, and communicate
her pleasures 5 no eye that sparkled to her
smile, or countenance that reflected her hap-
piness •, and she became spiritless and pen-
sive. The count, observing her dissatisfac-
tion, readily yielded to her entreaties, and
reminded Emily of her promised visit. But
the silence of Valaucourt, which was now
prolonged far beyond the period when a let-
ter might have arrived from Estuviere,
oppressed Emily with severe anxiety, and,
rendering her averse to society, she would
willingly have deferred her acceptance of
this invitation, till her spirits should be re-
lieved. The count and his family, however,
pressed to see her-, and, as the circum-
stances that prompted her wish for soli-
tude could not be explained, there was an
appearance of caprice in her refusal, which
she could not persevere in, without offend-
ing the friends whose esteem she valued.
At length, therefore, she returned upon a
second visit to Chateau-le-Blanc. Here the
friendly manner of Count de Villefort en-
couraged Emily to mention to him her situ-

ation respecting the estates of her late aunt,
and to consult him on the means of recover-
ing them. He had little doubt that the law
would decide in her favour , and, advising
ner to apply to it, offered, first, to write to
an advocate at Avignon, on whose opinion
he thought he could rely. His kindness was
gratefully accepted by Emily j who, soothed
by the courtesy she daily experienced,
would have been once more happy, could
she have been assured of Valancourt's wel-
fare and unalteraed affection. She had now
been above a week at the chateau without
receiving intelligence of him ; and, though
she knew, that, if he was absent from his
brother's residence, it was scarcely probable
her letter had yet reached him, she could not
forbear to admit doubts and fears that de-
stroyed her peace. Again she would consi
der of all that might have happened in the
long period since her first seclusion at Udol-
pho ; and her mind was sometimes so over-
whelmed with an apprehension that Valan-
court was no more, or that he lived no
longer for her, that the company even of
Blanche became intolerably oppressive; and
she would sit alone in her apartment for
hours together, when the engagements of
the family allowed her to do so without inci-
vility. In one of these solitary hours, she
unlocked a little box, which contained some
letters of Valancourt, with some drawings
she had sketched during her stay in Tus-
cany ♦, the latter of which were no longer
interesting to her ; but, in the letters, she
now, with melancholy indulgence, meant to
retrace the tenderness that had so often
soothed her, and rendered her, for a moment,
insensible of the distance which separated
her from the writer. But their effect was
now changed : the affection they expressed
appealed so forcilly to her heart when she
considered that it had, perhaps, yielded to
the powers of time and absence, and even
the view of the hand-writing recalled so
many painful recollections, that she found
herself unable to go through the first she
had opened ; and sat musing, with her cheek
resting on her arm, and tears stealing from
her eyes, when old Dorothee entered the
room, to inform her that dinner would be
ready an hour before the usual time. Emily
started on perceiving her, and hastily put
up the papers ; but not before Dorothee
had observed both her agitation and her
tears.

" Ah, ma'amselle !" said she, " you, who
are so young — have you reason for sor-
row ?"

Emily tried to smile, but was unable to
speak.

" Alas, dear young lady ! when you come
to my age, you will not weep at trifles ; —
and surely you have nothing serious to grieve

you

>«

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

2)3

ci No, Dorothee ; nothing of any conse-
quence," replied Emily. Dorothee, now
stooping to pick up something that had
dropped from among the papers, suddenly
exclaimed, — " Holy Mary ! what is it 1 see?"
and then, trembling, sat down in a chair that
stood by the table.

" What is it you do see ?" said Emily,
alarmed by her manner, and looking round
the room.

"It is herself!" said Dorothee; "her
very self ! just as she looked a little before
she died i"

Emily, still more alarmed, began now
to fear that Dorothee was seized with sud-
den phrenzy •, but entreated her to explain
herself.

" That picture !" said she ; " where did
you find it, lady ? — it is my blessed mistress
herself!"

jShe laid on the table the miniature which
Emily had long ago found among the pa-
pers her father had enjoined her to destroy,
and over which she had once seen him shed
such tender and affecting tears j and, recol-
lecting all the various circumstances of his
conduct, that had long perplexed her, her
emotions increased to an excess which de-
prived her of all power to ask the questions
she trembled to have answered ; and she
could only inquire, whether Dorothee was
certain the picture resembled the late mar-
chioness?

" O, ma'amselle !" said she, " how came
it to strike me so, the instant I saw it, if it
was not my lady's likeness ? Ah !" added
she, taking up the miniature, " these are her
own blue eyes — looking so sweet and so
mild ! and there is her very look, such as I
have often seen it, when she had sat thinking
for a long while -, and then the tears would
often steal down her cheeks — but she never
would complain! It was that look, so
meek, as it were, and resigned, that used
to break my heart, and make me love
her so!"

" Dorothee !" said Emily, solemnly, " I
am interested in the cause of that grief —
more so, perhaps, than you may imagine ;
and I entreat that you will no longer refuse
to indulge my curiosity — it is not a com-
mon one."

As Emily said this, she remembered the
papers with which the picture had been
found, and had scarcely a doubt that they
had concerned the Marchioness de Villeroi ;
but with this supposition came a scruple,
whether she ought to inquire further on a
subject which might prove to be the same
that her father had so carefully endeavoured
to conceal. Her curiosity concerning the
marchioness, powerful as it was, it is proba-
ble she would have resisted, as she had for-
merly done on unwarily observing the few
terrible words in the papers, which had

never since been erased from her memory,
had she been certain that the history of that
lady was the subject of those papers, or,
that such simple particulars only as it was
probable Dorothee could relate, were in-
cluded in her father's command. What was
known to her, could be no secret to many
other persons ; and since it appeared very
unlikely that St. Aubert should attempt to
conceal what Emily might learn by ordinary
means, she at length concluded, that, if the
papers had related to the story of the mar-
chioness, it was not those circumstances of
it which Dorothee could disclose that he had
thought sufficiently, important to wish to
have concealed : she therefore no longer he-
sitated to make the inquiries that might
lead to the gratification of her curiosity.

" Ah, ma'amselle," said Dorothee, " it is
a sad story ; and cannot be told now 5— but
what am I saying ? — I never will tell it.
Many years have passed since it happened ;
and I never loved to talk of the marchioness
to any body but my husband. He lived in
the family, at that time, as well as myself,
and he knew many particulars from me
which nobody else did ; for I was about the
person of my lady in her last illness, and
saw and heard as much, or more, than my
lord himself. Sweet saint ! how patient she
was! When she died, I thought I could
have died with her !"

" Dorothee," said Emily, interrupting
her, " what you shall tell, you may depend
upon it, shall never be disclosed by me. I
have, 1 repeat it, particular reasons for
wishing to be informed on this subject, and
am willing to bind myself, in the most so-
lemn manner, never to mention what you
shall wish me to conceal."

Dorothee seemed surprised at the earnest-
ness of Emily's manner, and, after regarding
her for some moments in silence, said,—
" Young lady ! that look of your's pleads for
you— it is so like my dear mistress's, that I
can almost fancy 1 see her before me : if you
were her daughter, you could not remind me
of her more. But dinner will be ready : had
you not better go down ?"

" You will first promise to grant my re-
quest," said Emily.

" And Ought not you first to tell me,
ma'amselle, how this picture fell into your
hands, and the reasons you say you have for
curiosity about my lady ?"

" Why, no, Dorothee," replied Emily, re-
collecting herself ; " I have also particular
reasons for observing silence on these sub-
jects, at least till I know further ; and, re-
member, I do not promise ever to speak
upon them : therefore do not let me induce
you to satisfy my curiosity, from an expec-
tation that I shall gratify your's. What !
may judge proper to conceal, does not con-
cern myself alone, or I should hav« ks*

244

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO

scruple in revealing it : let a confidence in
my honour alone persuade you to disclose
what I request."

" Well, lady, replied Dorothee, after a
long pause, during which her eyes were
fixed upon Emily, " you seem so much in-
terested— and this picture, and that face of
your's, make me think you have some reason
to be so,— that I will trust you, and tell some
things, that I never told before to any body
but my husband, though there are people
who have suspected as much. I will tell
you the particulars of my lady's death, too,
and some of my own suspicions ; but you
must first promise me, by all the saints,"

Emily, interrupting her, solemnly pro-
mised never to reveal what should be con-
fided to her, without Dorothee's consent.

" But there is the horn, ma'amselle, sound-
ing for dinner," said Dorothee : " I must be
gone."

"When shall I see you again?" inquired
Emily.

Dorothee mused, and then replied, " Why,
madam, it may make people curious, if it is
known I am so much in your apartment,
and that I should be sorry for ; so I will
come when 1 am less likely to be observed.
I have little leisure in the day, and I shall
have a good deal to say j so, if you please,
ma'am, I will come when the family are all
in bed."

" That will suit me very well," replied
Emily : " Remember, then, to-night" —

" Aye, that is well remembered," said
Dorothee : " I fear I cannot come to-night,
madam •, for there will be the dance of the
vintage, and it will be late before the ser-
vants go to rest ; for, when they once set in
to dance, they will keep it up in the cool of
the air, till morning : at least, it used to be
so in my time."

" Ah ! is it the dance of the vintage ?"
said Emily, with a deep sigh, remembering
that it was on the evening of this festival, in
the preceding year, that St. Aubert and her-
self had arrived in the neighbourhood of
Chateau-le-Blanc. She paused a moment,
overcome by the sudden recollection ; and
then, recovering herself, added — " But this
dance is in the open woods, you, therefore,
will not be wanted, and can easily come to
me."

Dorothee replied that she had been accus-
tomed to be present at the dance of the vin-
tage, and she did not wish to be absent now ;
" but if 1 can get away, madam, I will,"
said she.

Emily then hastened to the dining-room ;
where the count conducted himself with the
courtesy which is inseparable from true dig-
nity, and of which the countess frequently
practised little, though her manner to Emily
was an exception to her usual habit. But, if

she retained few of the ornamental virtues,
she cherished other qualities, which she
seemed to consider invaluable : she had dis-
missed the grace of modesty ; but then she
knew perfecly well how to manage the stare
of assurance : her manners had little of the
tempered sweetness which is necessary to
render the female character interesting j but
she could occasionally throw into them an
affectation of spirits, which seemed to tri-
umph over every person who approached
her. In the country, however, she generally
affected an elegant languor, that persuaded
her almost to faint, when her favourite read
to her a story of fictitious sorrow ; but her
countenance suffered no change when living
objects of distress solicited her charity, and
her heart beat with no transport to the
thought of giving them instant relief: she
was a stranger to the highest luxury of
which, perhaps, the human mind can be
sensible — for her benevolence had never yet
called smiles upon the face of misery.

In the evening the count, with all his
family, except the countess and Mademoi-
selle Beam, went to the woods to witness
the festivity of the peasants, The scene was
in a glade ; where the trees, opening, formed
a circle round the turf they highly oversha-
dowed. Between their branches, vines,
loaded with ripe clusters, were hung in gay
festoons ; beneath, were tables, with fruit,
wine, cheese, and other rural fare, and seats
for the count and his family. At a little dis-
tance were benches for the elder peasants ;
few of whom, however, could forbear to
join the jocund dance, which began soon af-
ter sun-set ; when several of sixty tripped it
with almost as much glee and airy lightness
as those of sixteen.

The musicians, who sat carelessly on the
grass at the foot of a tree, seemed inspired
by the sound of their own instruments,
which were chiefly flutes, and a kind of
long guitar. Behind stood a boy, flourish-
ing a tambourine, and dancing a solo, ex»
cept that, as he sometimes gaily tossed the
instrument, he tripped among the other
dancers ; when his antic gestures called
forth a broader laugh, and heightened the
rustic spirit of the scene.

The count was highly delighted with the
happiness he witnessed, to which his bounty
had largely contributed ; and the Lady
Blanche joined the dance with a young
gentleman of her father's party. Du Pont
requested Emily's hand ; but her spirits
were too much depressed to permit her to
engage in the present festivity, which called
to her remembrance that of the preceding
year, when St. Aubert was living, and of
the melancholy scenes which had imme-
diately followed it.

Overcome by these recollections, she, at
length left the snot, and walked slowly

Into the woods ; where the softened music,
floating at a distance, soothed her melan-
choly mind. The moon threw a mellow
light among the foliage ; the air was balmy
and cool ; and Emily, lost in thought,
strolled on, without observing whither, till
she perceived the sounds sinking afar off,
and an awful stillness around her, except
that, sometimes, the nightingale beguiled
the silence with

" Liquid notes, that close the eye of day.**

At length she found herself near the
avenue which on the night of her father's
arrival, Michael had attempted to pass in
search of a house whch was still nearly as
wild and desolate as it had then appeared ;
for the count had been so much engaged
in directing other improvements, that he
had neglected to give orders concerning
this extensive approach ; and the road was
yet broken, and the trees overloaded with
their own luxuriance.

As she stood surveying it, and remember-
ing the emotions which she had formerly
suffered there, she suddenly recollected
the figure that had been seen stealing
among the trees, and which had returned
no answer to Michael's repeated calls;
and she experienced somtwhat of the fear
that had then assailed her, for it did not
appear improbable that these deep woods
were occasionally the haunt of banditti :
she therefore turned back ; and was hastily
pursuing her way to the dancers, when
she heard steps approaching from the
avenue 3 and being still beyond the call

of the peasants on the green, for she
could neither hear their voic»w or their
music, she quickened her pace : but the
persons following gained fast upon her ;
and, at length, distinguishing the voice of
Henri, she walked leisurely till he came up.
He expressed some surprise at meeting
her so far from the company ; and, on
her saying that the pleasant moon-light
had beguiled her to walk farther than she
intended, an exclamation burst from the
lips of his companion, and she thought
she heard Valancourt speak ! It was, in-
deed, he! and the meeting was such as
may be imagined, between persons so affec-
tionate, and so long separated, as they had
been.

In the joy of these moments, Emily
forgot all her past sufferings ; and Valan-
court seemed to have forgotten that any
person but Emily existed ; while Henri
was a silent and astonished spectator of the
ecene*.

Valancourt asked a thousand questions
concerning herself and Montoni, which
there was now no time to answer ; but she
learned that her letter had been forwarded
to Paris, while he was on the way to Gas-
cony 5 where, however, at length, it in-
formed him of her arrival in Fiance } and he
immediately set out for Languedoc. On
reaching the monastery, whence she had
dated this letter, he found to his extreme
disappointment, that the gates were already
closed for the night \ and, believing that he
should not see her till the morrow, he
was returning to his little inn, with the nv-

*6

THE MYSTERIES OF VDOLPHO.

lention of writing to her, when he was
overtaken by Henri, with whom he bad
been intimate at Paris, and was ted to her,
whom he was secretly lamenting that he
should not see till the following day.

Emily, with Valancourt and Henri, now
returned to the green, where the latter
presented Valancourt to the count ; who,
she fancied, received him with less than
his usual beniguity, though it appeared
thev were not st ra ngers to each other.
He was invited, however, to partake of the
diversions of the eveniug ; and, when he
had paid his respects to the count, and
while the daucers continued their festivity,
he seated himself by Emily, and conversed
without restraint. The lights which were
hung among the trees under which they
sat, allowed her a more perfect view of
the counteuanee she had so frequently in
absence endeavoured to recollect, and she
perceived with some regret, that it was
not the same as when last she saw it.
There was all its wonted intelligence and
fire *, but it bad lost much of the simpli-
city, and somewhat of the open benevo-
lence that used to characterise it. Still,
however, it was an interesting countenauce j
but Emily thought she perceived, at in-
tervals, auxiety contract, and melancholy
fix, the features of Valancourt : some-
times too he fell into a momentary mu-
sing and then appeared anxious to dissipate
thought ; while, at others, as he fixed his
eyes on Emily, a sudden kind of horror
seemed to cross his mind. In her he pre-
ceived the same goodness and beautiful
simplicity that had charmed him on their
first acquaintance. The bloom of her
countenance was somewhat faded, but all
its sweetness remained j and it was rendered
more interesting than ever, by the faint ex-
pression of melancholy that sometimes
mingled with her smile.

At his request, she related the most im-
portant circumstances that had occurred to
her since she left France ^ and emotions of
pity and indignation alternately prevailed
iu his mind, when he heard how much
she had suffered from the villainy of Mon-
toni. More than once, when she was speak-
ing of his conduct, of which the guilt
was rather softened than exaggerated by
her representation, he started from his seal
and walked away, apparently overcome as
much by self-accusation as by resentment.
Her sufferings alone were mentioned in
the few words which he could address to
her -y and he listened not to the account,
which she was careful to give as distinctly
as possible, of the present loss of Madame
Montonf s estates, and of the little reason
there was to expect their restoration At
length, Valancourt remained lost in thought,

and then some secret cause seemed u.
overcome him with anguish. Again he
abruptly left her. When he returned she
perceived that he had been weeping, and
tenderly begged that he would compose
himself. M My sufferings are all passed
now," said she ; * for I have escaped from
the tyranny of Montoni ; and I see you well
—let me also see you happy."

Valancourt was more agitated than be-
fore. " I am unworthy of you, Emily,"
said he ; "I am unworthy of you p —
words, by his manner of uttering which,
Emily was then more shocked than by their
import. She fixed on him a mournful and
inquiring eye. " Do not look thus on
me," said he, turning away, and pressing
her hand : " I cannot bear those looks."

* I would ask, said Emily, in a gentle
but agitated voice, " the meauing of youi
words, but I perceive that the question
would distress you now. Let us talk on
other subjects. To-morrow, perhaps, you
may be more composed. Observe those
moon-light woods, and the towers which
appear obscurely in the perspective. You
used to be a great admirer of landscape ;
and I have heard you say, that the faculty
of deriving cousolation, under misfortune,
from the sublime prospects which neither
oppression nor poverty withhold from us,
was the peculiar blessing of the innocent."
Valancourt was deeply affected. " Yes,"
replied he ; " I had once a taste for inno-
cent and elegant delights — I had once an
uncorrupted heart !" Then checking him-
self, he added, ■ Do you remember our
journey together in the Pyrenees ?"

" Can 1 forget it ?" said Emily. — " Would
that I could !" he replied ; — " that was the
happiest period of my life : I then loved,
with enthusiasm, whatever was truly great
or good."-— It was some time before Emily
could repress her tears, and try to com-
mand her emotions. " If you wish to for-
get that journey,!" said she, " it must
certainly be my wish to forget it also."
She paused, and then added, " You make
me very uneasy ; — but this is not the
time for further inquiry : — yet how can 1
bear to believe, even for a moment, that
you are less worthy of my esteem than
formerly r I have still sufficient confidence
in your candour, to believe, that, when I
shall ask for an explanation, you will give
it me." — "Yes," said Valancourt ; "yes,
Emily : I have not yet lost my candour :
if I had, I coulct better have disguised my
emotions, on learning what were your suf-
ferings— your virtues ; while I— I \ but I
will say no more : 1 did not mean to have
said even so much — I have been surprised
into the self-accusation Tell me, E.
that you will not forget that jonrn«y — will

THE MYSTERIES OF riXM.PHO.

act wish to forget it, and I
qui. I would not lose the
it for the whole earth."

"How contradictory is
Emily j — " tmt we mar be
My recollection of it shall
▼oar's : I will endeavour to forget, or to
recollect it, as yon may do. Let as join
the count-" — " fell me, " first,*' said Valan-
court, " that yon forgive the
I hare occasioned

that you will still love me." — "I sincerely
forgive too," replied Emily. " You best
know whether I
yon, for yon

my esteem. At present I will
you do. It is unnecessary to saj,
she, observing his deject km, " how much
pain it would give me to believe other-
wise.— The young lady who
the count's daughter." "

Valaneourt aud Emily m
Lady Blanche ; and the party, soon after,
sat down with the count, his son and the
Chevalier Du Pont, at a banquet, spread
under a gay awning beneath the
At a table also were seated several of the
most venerable of die count's tenants;
and it was a festive repast to all but Ya
Uacourt and Emily. When the count re-
tired to the chateau, he did not invite Valan-
ee*urt to accompany him ; who, therefore,
took leave of Emily, and retired to his
:ary inn for the night: meanwhile she
soon withdrew to her own apartment,
where she mused, with deep anxiety ami
concern, on his behaviour, and on the
count's reception of him. Her attention)
was thus so wholly engaged, that she forgot
Dorothee and her appointment, till morn-
ing was far advanced; when, knowing
that the good old woman would not come,
she retired, for a few hours, to repose.

On the following day, when the count
had accidentally joined Emily in one of
the walks, they talked of the festival of
the preceding evening ; and this led him to
a mention of Valoncourt. "That is a
young man of talents," said he : * you
were formerlv acquainted with him, I per-
ceive." Emily said that she was. "He
was introduced to me at Paris-" said the
count, ■ and I was much pleased with
him on our first acquaintance." He pans*
ed, and Emily trembled, between the do-
sire of hearing more, and the fear of
iirar the couut that she felt
the subject. "May I ask," said he, at
length, ■ how long you have knowu Mon-
sieur Valancourt ?" — "Will you allow me
to ask your reason tor the question, sir ?"
said she ; " and I will answer it iramr.
diately."— "Certainly," said the count;
"that is but just : I will tell you my
leasoo. I cannot but perceive, that Mon-
ti Valancourt admires you. Iu that,

replied the
him not worthy of yowj
greatly agitated,
boo. « I will ffive it,7* said he, " tf

trom I have

temper
such a return
has been

me esteem yon, and feel a lively mt<
your happiness. You deserve to be very
happy, and 1 trust that you will be so."
Emily sighed softly, and bowed he
The count paused again. "I a*

au opportunity of

table Of a

n, of t:tm,iiKro:
vam tbc Oaeidaet
knot too painful"
ac 2cc:,ieui oftL<ir
of her tether; ami
the count not to
what he knew, that he
perceived the vi it emotion against whkh
she was coot
wok a
how he
with least pain to his

" The chevalier and my son," said he,
to each other, at the
fficer; at whose house 1
iim, nod invited him to my own,
he should he disengaged. 1 did
not then know that he had
ith a set of awe
who live by
their Ihes in continual debauchery,
several of the chevalier's ramily resident at
Paris, and considered them as sufficient
for his intiodortion to mv own —
Lt'yeu ace ill— 1 will leave the subject*
"No,* sir," said Emily; " 1 be? you wil
proceed j I am only distressed." m Onhr /*
said the count, with emphasis. " Howeves;
1 will proceed. 1 soon leaned that these,
Ins associates, had drawn him into a course
of do i, rVoui whkh he appeared to

a disgrace to

lor, nod pom

248

THE MYaTERlES OF UDOLPHO

have neither the power nor the inclination
to extricate himself. He lost large sums at
the gaming-table ; he became infatuated
with play, and was ruined. I spoke ten-
derly of this to his friends, who assured me
that they had remonstrated with him till
they were weary. I afterwards learned,
that, in consideration of his talents for play,
which were generally successful when unop-
posed by the tricks of villainy — that, in
consideration of these, the party had ini-
tiated him into the secrets of their trade, and
allotted him a share of their profits." " Im-
possible !" said Emily, suddenly. " But —
pardon me, sir ; I scarcely know what I say
—allow for the distress of my mind. I must,
indeed I must, believe, that you have not
been truly informed: the chevalier had,
doubtless, enemies, who misrepresented him ."
•* 1 should be most happy to believe so,"
replied the count ; " but I cannot. No-
thing short of conviction, and a regard for
your welfare, could have urged me to re-
peat these unpleasant reports."

Emily was silent. She recollected Valan-
court's sayings on the preceding evening,
which discovered the pangs of self-reproach,
and seemed to confirm all that the count
ha»; related. Yet she had not fortitude
enough to dare conviction : her heart was
overwhelmed with anguish at the mere sus-
picion of his guilt, and she could not endure
a belief of it. After a long silence, the
count said, " I perceive, and can allow for,
your want of conviction. It is necessary I
should give some proof of what I have as-
serted ; but this I cannot do without sub-
jecting one, who is very dear to me, to dan-
ger." " What is the danger you appre-
hend, sir ?" said Emily. " If I can prevent
it, you may safely confide in my honour."
" On your honour I am certain I can rely,"
said the count ; "but can I trust your forti-
tude ? Do you think you can resist the so-
licitations of a favoured admirer, when he
pleads, in affliction, for the name of one
who has robbed him of a blessing ?" " I
shall not be exposed to such a temptation,
sir," said Emily, with modest pride j " for I
cannot favour one whom I must no longer
esteem. 1, however, readily give my word.**
Tears, in the mean time, contradicted her
first assertion j and she felt that time and
effort only could eradicate an affection
which had been formed on virtuous esteem,
and cherished by habit and difficulty.

" I will trust you then," said the count ;
(i for convicfibn is necessary to your future
peace, and cannot, I perceive, be obtained
without this confidence. My son has too
often been an eye-witness of the chevalier's
ill conduct ; he was very near being drawn
in by it : he was, indeed, drawn in to the
commission of many follies, but I rescued
him from guilt and destruction. Judge ,

then, Mademoiselle St. Auberi, whether a
father, who had nearly lost his only son b>
the example of the chevalier, has not, lion
conviction, reason to warn those whom h^
esteems against trusting their happiness iu
such hands. I have myself seen the cheva-
lier engaged in deep play with men whom I
almost shuddered to look upon. If you
still doubt, 1 will refer you to my son."

" I must not doubt what you have your-
self witnessed," replied Emily, sinking with
grief, " or what you assert. But the cheva
lier has, perhaps, been drawn only into a
transient folly, which he may never repeat.
If you had known the justness of his former
principles, you would allow for my present
incredulity."

" Alas ["observed the count, " it is diffi-
cult to believe that which will make u*
wretched. But 1 will not soothe you by
flattering and false hopes. We all know
how fascinating the vice of gaming is, and
how difficult it is, also, to conquer habit.—
The chevalier might, perhaps, reform for a
while, but he would soon relapse into dissi-
pation ; for, I fear, not only the bonds of
habit would be powerful, but that his mo-
rals are corrupted. And— why should I
conceal from you, that play is not his only
vice ? He appears to have a taste for every
vicious pleasure."

The count hesitated, and paused ; while
Emily endeavoured to support herself, as,
with increasing perturbation, she expected
what he might further say. A long pause
of silence ensued, during which he was visi-
bly agitated. At length he said, " It would
be a cruel delicacy that could prevail with
me to be silent ; and I will inform you, that
the chevalier's extravagance has brought
him twice into the prisons of Paris ; from
whence he was last extricated, as I was told
upon authority which I cannot doubt, by a
well-known Parisian countess, with whom he
continued to reside when I left Paris."

He paused again ; and, looking at Emily,
perceived her countenance change, and that
she was falling from the seat : he caught her;
but she had fainted, and he called loudly
for aid. They were, however, beyond the
hearing of his servants at the chateau, and
he feared to leave her while he went thither
for assistance, yet knew not how otherwise
to obtain it ; till a fountain at no great dis-
tance caught his eye, and he endeavoured to
support Emily against the tree under which
she had been sitting, while he went thither
for water. Again he was perplexed, for he
had nothing near him in which water could
be brought ; but while, with increased
anxiety, he watched her, he thought he per-
ceived in her countenance symptoms of
returning life.

It was long, however, before she revived,
and then she found herself supported — not

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

249

by the count — but by Valancourt, who was
observing her with looks of earnest apprehen^
sion, and who now spoke to her in a tone
tremulous with his anxiety. At the sound
of his well-known voice, she raised her eyes ;
but presently closed them, and a faintness
again came over her.

The count, with a look somewhat stern,
waved him to withdraw ; but he only sighed
heavily, and called on the name of Emily,
as he again held the water, that had been
brought, to her lips. On the count's repeat-
ing his action, and accompanying it with
words, Valancourt answered him with a look
of deep resentment, and refused to leave the
place till she should revive, or to resign her
for a moment to the care of any person. In
the next instant, his conscience seemed to
inform him of what had been the subject of
the count's conversation with Emily, and
indignation flashed in his eyes : but it was
quickly repressed, and succeeded by an ex-
pression of serious anguish, that induced
the count to regard him with more pity than
resentment, and the view of which so much
affected Emily, when she again revived, that
she yielded to the weakness of tears : but
she soon restrained them ; and, exerting her
resolution to appear recovered, she rose,
thanked the count and Henri, with whom
Valancourt had entered the garden, for their
care, and moved toward the chateau, without
noticing Valancourt; who, heart-struck by
her manner, exclaimed in a low voice —
" Good God ! how have I deserved this ?—
what has been said to occasion this change ?"
Emily, without replying, but with in-
creased emotion, quickened her steps.-—
" What has thus disordered you, Emily ?"
said he, as he still walked by her side : " give
me a few moments' conversation, I entreat
you ; — I am very miserable !"

Though this was spoken in a low voice, it
was overheard by the count ; who im-
mediately replied, that Mademoiselle St.
Aubert was then too much indisposed to at-
tend to any conversation, but that he would
venture to promise she would see Mon-
sieur Valancourt on the morrow, if she was
better.

Valancourt's cheek was crimsoned: he
looked haughtily at the count, and then at
Emily with successive expressions of surprise,
grief, and supplication, which she could
neither misunderstand nor resist, and she said
languidly — " 1 shall be better to-morrow ;
and, if you wish to accept the count's per-
mission, I will see you then."

" See me !" exclaimed Valancourt, as he
threw a glance of mingled pride and resent-
ment upon the count j and then, seeming to
recollect himself, he added — " But I will
come, madam ; I will accept the count's
permission."

When they i earned the door of the cha-

teau, he lingered a moment, for his resent-
ment was now fled ; and then, with a look
yo expressive of tenderness and grief, that
Emilv's heart was not proof against it, he
bade her good-morning, and, bowing slightly
to the count, disappeared,

Emily withdrew to her own apartment,
under such oppression of heart as she had
seldom known ; when she endeavoured to
recollect all that the count had told, to ex-
amine the probability of the circumstances
he himself believed, and to consider of her
future conduct towards Valancourt. But
when she attempted to think, her mind re-
fused controul, and she could only feel thai
she was miserable. One moment, she sunk
under the conviction that Valancourt was
no longer the same whom she had so ten-
derly loved — the idea of whom had hitherto
supported her under affliction, and cheered
her with the hope of happier days — but a
fallen, a worthless character, whom she must
teach herself to despise — if she could not for-
get : then, unable to endure this terrible
supposition, she rejected it, and disdained to
believe him capable of conduct such as the
connt had described ; to whom she believed
he had been misrepresented by some artful
enemy : and there were moments, when she
even ventured to doubt the integrity of the
count himself, and to suspect, that he was
influenced by some selfish motive, to break
her connection with Valancourt. But this
was the error of an instant only : the count's
character, which she had heard spoken of
by Du Pont and many other persons, and
had herself observed, enabled her to judge,
and forbade the supposition : had her con-
fidence, indeed, been less, there appeared to
be no temptation to betray him into conduct
so treacherous, and so cruel. Nor did re-
flection suffer her to preserve the hope that
Valancourt had been misrepresensed to the
count, who had said, that he spoke chiefly
from his own observation, and from his son's
experience. She must part from Valancourt,
therefore, for ever !— for what of either hap-
piness or tranquillity could she expect, with
a man whose tastes were degenerated into
low inclinations, and to whom vice was
become habitual ? whom she must no longer
esteem, though the remembrance of what he
once was, and the long habit of loving him,
would render it very difficult for her to
despise him.

" O Valancourt !" she would exclaim,
" having been separated so long, do we meet
only to be miserable ! — only to part for
ever !"

Amidst all the tumult of her mind, she
remembered pertinaciously the seeming can-
dour and simplicity of his conduct on the
preceding night ; and had she dared to trust
her own heart, it would have led her to hope
much from this. Still she could not resolve

tt>0

THE MYSTERIES OF (7DOLPUO.

10 dismiss him for ever, without obtaining
further proof of his ill conduct ; yet she saw
no probability of procuring it— if, indeed,
proof more positive was possible. Some-
thing, however, it was necessary to decide
upon ; and she almost determined to be
guided in her opinion, solely by the manner
with which Valancourt should receive her
hints concerning his late conduct.

Thus passed the hours till dinner-time 5
when Emily, struggling against the pressure
of her grief, dried her tears, and joined the
family at table ; where the count preserved
towards her the most delicate attention 5 but
the countess and Mademoiselle Beam having
looked, for a moment, with surprise, on her
dejected countenance, began, as usual, to
talk of trifles ; while the eyes of Lady
Blanche asked much of her friend, who
could only reply by a mournful smile.

Emily withdrew as soon after dinner as
possible, and was followed by the Lady
Blanche ; whose anxious enquiries, however,
she found herself quite unequal to answer,
and whom she entreated to spare her on the
subject of her distress. To converse on any
topic, was now, indeed, so extremely painful
to her, that she soon gave up the attempt ;
and Blanche left her, with pity of the sorrow
which she perceived she had no power to
assuage.

Emily secretly determined to go to her
convent in a day or two \ for company, es-
pecially that of the countess and Made-
moiselle Beam, was intolerable to her, in
the present state of her spirits : and in the
retirement of the convent, as well as the
kindness of the abbess, she hoped to recover
the command of her mind, and to teach it
resignation to the event which, she too
plainly perceived, was approaching.

To have lost Valancourt by death, or to
have seen him married to a rival, would, she
thought, have given her less anguish, than a
conviction of his unworthiness, which must
terminate in misery to himself, and which
robbed her even of the solitary image her
heart so long had cherished. These painful
reflections were interrupted, for a moment,
by a note from Valancourt, written in evident
distraction of mind, entreating that she
would permit him to see her on the approach-
ing evening instead of the following morning
—a request which occasioned her so much
agitation, that she was unable to answer it :
she wished to see him, and to terminate her
present state of suspense, yet shrunk from
the interview 5 and, incapable of deciding
for herself, she, at length, sent to beg a few
moments' conversation with the couut in his
library ; where she delivered to him the note,
and requested his advice. After reading it,
he said, that, if she believed herself well
enough to support the interview, his opinion
was, that, for the relief of both parties, it

ought to take place that evening. " Hts
affection for you cannot be doubted," added
the count ; " and he appears so much dis-
tressed, and you, my amiable friend, are so
ill at ease— that the sooner the affair is de-
cided, the better."

Emily replied, therefore, to Valancourt,
that she would see him , and then exerted
herself in endeavours to attain fortitude and
composure to bear her through the ap-
proaching scene— a scene so afflictingly the
reverse of any to which she had looked
forward \

CHAP. XXXIX

" Is all the council that we two have shared,

the hours that we have spent,

When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For partiug us Oh ! and is all forgot X

And will you rent our ancient love asunder?"

MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

In the evening, when Emily was at length
informed, that Count de Villefort requested
to see her, she guessed that Valancourt was
below, and, endeavouring to assume compo-
sure and to re-collect all her spirits, she rose
and left the apartment ; but on reaching the
door of the library, where she imagined him
to be, her emotion returned with such ener-
gy, that, fearing to trust herself in the roomf
she returned into the hall, where she con-
tinued for a considerable time, unable to
command her agitated spirits.

When she could recall them, she found in
the library Valancourt, seated with the count,
who both rose on her entrance 5 but she did
not dare to look at Valancourt ; and the
count, having led her to a chair, immediate-
ly withdrew.

Emily remained with her eyes fixed on the
floor, under such oppression of heart, that
she could not speak, and with difficulty
breathed; while Valancourt threw himself
into a chair beside her, and, sighing heavily,
continued silent, when, had she raised her
eyes, she would have perceived the violent
emotion he suffered.

At length, in a tremulous voice, he said,
" I have solicited to see you this evening,
that I might, at least, be spared the further
torture of suspense, which your altered man-
ner had occasioned me, and which the hints
I have just received from the count have in
part explained. I perceive I have enemies,
Emily, who envied me my late happiness,
and who have been busy in searching out
the means to destroy it : I perceive, too,
that time and absence have weakened the
affection you once felt for me, and that you
can now easily be taught to forget me.'"

His last words faltered, and Emily, less
able to speak than before, continued silent.

" O- what a meeting is this !" exclaimed
Valancourt, starting from his seat, and pa-
cing the room with hurried steps 3 " what a

Tft£ MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

251

meeting is this, after our long — long separa-
tion !" Again he sat down, and, after the
struggle of a moment, he added in a firm but
despairing tone, " This is too much— I Can-
not bear it ! Emily, will you not speak to
me?"

He covered his face with his hand* as if
to conceal his emotion, and took Emily's,
which she did not withdraw. Her tears
could no longer be restrained ; and, when he
looked up, and perceived that she was weep-
ing, all his tenderness returned, and a gleam
of hope appeared to cross his mind, for he
exclaimed, " O ! you do pity me, then, you
do love me ! Yes, you are still my own
Emily—: — let me believe those tears that tell
me so !"

Emily now made an effort to recover her
firmness, and, hastily drying them, " Yes,**
said she, " I do pity you— I weep for you —
but, ought I to think of you with affection ?
You may remember that yester-evening, I
said, I had still sufficient confidence in your
candour to believe, that, when I should re-
quest an explanation of your words, you
would give it. This explanation is now un
necessary, I understand them too well 5 but
prove, at least, that your candour is deserv
ing of the confidence 1 give it, when I ask
you, whether you are conscious of being the
same estimable Valancourt — whom I once
loved."

" Once loved !" cried he— " the same, the
same !" He paused in extreme emotion,
and then added, in a voice at once solemn and
dejected, — " No — 1 am not the same ! — I am
lost — 1 am no longer worthy of you P1

He again concealed his face. Emily was
too much affected by this honest confession
to reply immediately, and, while she strug-
gled to overcome the pleadings of her heart,
and to act with the decisive firmness which
was necessary for her future peace, she per-
ceived all the danger of trusting long to her
resolution, in the presence of Valancourt,
and was anxious to conclude an interview
that tortured them both ; yet when she con-
sidered that this was probably their last
meeting, her fortitude sunk at once, and she
experienced only emotions of tenderness and
of despondency.

Valancourt, meanwhile, lost in those of re-
morse and grief, which he had neither the
power or the will to express, sat insensible
almost of the presence of Emily, his features
still concealed, and his breast agitated by
convulsive sighs.

" Spare me the necessity," said Emily,
re-collecting her fortitude, " spare me the
necessity of mentioning those circumstances
of your conduct which oblige me to break
our connection for ever. We must part — I
now see you for the last time."

" Impossible !" cried Valancourt, roused

from his deep silence ; " You cannot mean
what you say ! — you cannot mean to throw
me from you for ever !"

" We must part," repeated Emily, with
emphasis—" and that for ever ! Your own
conduct has made this necessary."

" This is the count's determination," said
he, haughtily, " not your's, and I shall en-
quire by what authority he interferes between
us." He now rose, and walked about the
room in great emotion.

" Let me save you from this error," said
Emily, not less agitated — " it is my deter-
mination, and, if you reflect a moment on
your late conduct, you will perceive that
my future peace requires it."

" Your future peace requires, that we
should part— part for ever !" said Valan-
court : " how little did I ever expect to hear
you say so !"

" And how little did I expect, that it
would be necessary for me to say so !" re-
joined Emily, while her voice softened into
tenderness, and her tears flowed again.—
" That you — you, Valancourt, would ever
fall from my esteem !"

He was silent a moment, as if overwhelm-
ed by the consciousness of no longer deserv-
ing this esteem, as well as the certainty of
haying lost it ; and then, with impassioned
grief, lamented the criminality of his late
conduct and the misery to which it had re-
duced him, till, overcome by a recollection
of the past, and a conviction of the future,
he burst into tears, and uttered only deep
and broken sighs.

The remorse he had expressed, and the
distress he suffered, could not be witnessed
by Emily with indifference ; and, had she
not called to her recollection all the circum
stances of which Count de Villefort had in
formed her, and all he had said of the danger
of confiding in repentance, formed under the
influence of passion, she might perhaps have
trusted to the assurances of her heart, and
have forgotten his misconduct in the tender
ness which that repentance excited.

Valancourt, returning to the chair beside
her, at length said, in a subdued voice,
" 'Tis true, I am fallen — fallen from my
own esteem ! but could you, Emily, so soon,
so suddenly resign, if you had not before
ceased to love me, or, if your conduct was
not governed by the designs, I will say, the
selfish designs, of another person ?" Would
you not otherwise be willing to hope for
my reformation — and could you bear, by
estranging me from you, to abandon me to
misery — to myself ?" — Emily wept aloud —
u No, Emily — no— you would not do this, if
you still loved me. You would find your
own happiness in saving mine."

" There are too many probabilities against
that hope," said Emily, " to justify me in

*.V2

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO

trusting the comfort of my whole life to it.
May I not also ask, whether you could wish
me to do this, if you really loved me ?"

" Really loved you ?" exclaimed Valan-
court— " is it possible you can doubt my
love ? Yet it is reasonable that you should
do so, since you see that I am less ready to
suffer the horror of parting with you, than
that of involving you in my ruki. Yes,
Emily — I am ruined — irreparably ruined —
I am involved in debts, which I can never
discharge !" Valancourt's look, which was
wild as he spoke this, soon settled into an
expression of gloomy despair ; and Emily,
while she was compelled to admire his sin-
cerity, saw, with unutterable anguish, new
reasons for fear in the suddenness of his
feelings, and the extent of the misery in
which they might involve him. After some
minutes, she seemed to contend against her
grief, and to struggle for fortitude to con-
clude the interview. " I will not prolong
these moments," said she, " by a conversa-
tion which can answer no good purpose.
Valancourt, farewell."

" You are not going ?" said he, wildly,
interrupting her — " You will not leave me
thus — you will not abandon me even before
my mind has suggested any possibility of
compromise between the last indulgence of
my despair, and the endurance of my loss !"
Emily was terrified by the sternness of his
look, and said, in a soothing voice, " You
have yourself acknowledged, that it is neces-
sary we should part j — if you wish that I
should believe you love me, you will repeat
ihe aknowledgment." — " Never, never 1"
cried he — " I was distracted when I made
it. O! Emily — this is too much; — though
you are not deceived as to my faults, you
must be deluded into this exasperation
against them. The count is the barrier
between us ; but he shall not long remain
so."

" You are, indeed, distracted," said Emily,
" the count is not your enemy ; on the con-
trary, he is my friend, and that might, in
some degree, induce you to consider him as
your's." — " Your friend !" said Valancourt,
nastily, " how long has he been your friend,
that he can so * easily make you forget your
lover ? Was it he who recommended to
your favour the Monsieui Du Pont, who,
you say, accompanied you from Italy, and
who, 1 say, has stolen your affections? But
I have no right to question you 5 — you are
your own mistress. Du Pont, perhaps, may
not long triumph over my fallen fortunes !"
Emily, more frightened than before by the
frantic looks of Valancourt, said, in a tone
scarcely audible, " For heaven's sake be rea-
sonable— be composed ! Monsieur Du Pont
is not your rival, nor is the count his advo-
cate. You have no rival j nor, except your-

self, an enemy. My heart is wrung with
anguish, which must increase, while your
frantic behaviour shews me, more than ever,
that you are no longer the Valancourt 1 have
been accustomed to love ?"

He made no reply, but sat with his arms
rested on the table, and his face concealed
by his hands 5 while Emily stood, sitent and
trembling, wretched for herself, and dreading
to leave him in this state of mind.

" O excess of misery !" he suddenly ex-
claimed, " that I can never lament my suf-
ferings, without accusing myself, nor re-
member youy without recollecting the folly
and the vice by which I have lost you ! Why
was I forced to Paris, and why did I yield
to allurements, which were to make me des-
picable for ever ! O ! why cannot I look
back, without interruption, to those days of
innocence and peace, the days of our early
love !"-— The recollection seemed to melt his
heart, and the phrensy of despair yielded to
tears. After a long pause, turning towards
her and taking her hand, he said, in a soft,
ened voice, " Emily, can you bear that we
should part— -can you resolve to give up a
heart, that loves you like raino — a heart,
which, though it has erred — widely erred —
is not irretrievable from error, as you well
know, it never can be retrievable from
love?" Emily made no reply but with her
tears. " Can you," continued he, " can you
forget all our former days of happiness and
confidence — when 1 had not a thought that
I might wish to conceal from you — when I
had no taste — no pleasures, in which you did
not participate."

" O do not lead me to the remembrance of
those days," said Emily, " unless you can
teach me to be insensible to the present. I
do not mean to reproach you ; if I did, 1
should be spared these tears •, but why will
you render your present sufferings more con-
spicuous, by contrasting them with your
former virtues ?"

" Those virtues," said Valancourt, " might,
perhaps, again be mine, if your affection,
which nurtured them, was unchanged : but,
I fear, indeed, — I see that you can no longer
love ; else the happy hours which we have
passed together would plead for me, und
you could not look back upon them uu
moved. Yet, why should I torture myself
with the remembrance — why do I linger
here ? Am I not ruined — would it not be
madness to involve you in my misfortune,
even if your heart was still my own ? I
will not distress you further. Yet, before
I go," added he, in a solemn voice, " let
me repeat, that, whatever may be my
destiny— whatever 1 may be doomed to
suffer, I must always love you — most fondly
love you ! I am going, Emily, I am going
to leave you — to leave ycu for ever . ' A .,

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

253

lie spoke the last words, his voice trembled,
and he threw himself again into the chair
from which he had risen. Emily was
utterly unable to leave the room, or to
say farewell. All impression of his criminal
conduct and almost of his follies was ob-
literated from her mind, and she was sen-
sible only of pity and grief.

• My fortitude is gone," said Valancourt
at length ; " 1 can no longer even strug-
gle to recall it. I cannot now leave you —
I cannot bid you an eternal farewell ; say,
at least, that you will see me once again."
Emily's heart was somewhat relieved by
the request, and she endeavoured to believe
that she ought not to refuse it. Yet she
was embarrassed by recollecting that she
was a visitor in the house of the count, who
could not be pleased by the return of Valan-
court. Other considerations, however, soon
overcame this, and she granted his request,
on the condition that he would neither
think of the count as his enemy, nor Du
Pont as his rival. He then left her with a
heart so much lightened by this short respite,
that he almost lost every former sense of
misfortune. *

Emily withdrew to her own room, that
she might compose her spirits and remove
the traces of her tears, which would en-
courage the censorious remarks of the
countess and her favourite, as well as excite
the curiosity of the rest of the family.
She found it however impossible to tran-
quilise her mind, from which she could not
expel the remembrance of the late scene
with Valancourt, or the consciousness that
she was to see him again on the morrow.
This meeting now appeared more terrible
to her than the last, for the ingenuous con-
fession he had made of his ill conduct,
and his embarrassed circumstances, with
the strength and tenderness of affection,
which this confession discovered, had
deeply impressed her, and, in spite of all
she had heard and believed to his disad-
vantage, her esteem began to return. It
frequently appeared to her impossible that
he could have been guilty of the depravi-
ties reported of him, which if not incon-
sistent with his warmth aud impetuosity,
were entirely so with his candour and sensi-
bility. Whatever was the criminality which
had given rise to the reports, she could
not now believe them to be wholly true,
nor that his heart was finally closed against
the charms of virtue. The deep conscious-
ness which he felt, as well as expressed of
his errors, seemed to justify the opinion ;
and, as she understood not the instability of
youthful dispositions when opposed by
habit, and that professions frequently de-
ceive those who make, as well as those
who hear them, she might have yielded to
the flattering persuasions of her own heart

and the pleadings of Valancourt, had she
not been guide 1 by the superior prudence
of the count. He represented to her, in a
clear light, the danger of her present situa-
tion, that of listening to promises of amend
ment made under the influence of strong
passion, and the slight hope which could
attach to a connection whose chance
of happiness rested upon the retrieval
of ruined circumstances, and the reform
of corrupted habits. On these accounts,
he lamented that Emily had consented to a
second interview, for he saw how much it
would shake her resolution, and increase
the difficulty of her conquest.

Her mind was now so entirely occupied by
nearer interests, that she forgot the old
housekeeper, and the promised history which
so lately had excited her curiosity, but which
Dorothee was probably not very anxious to
disclose, for night came, the hours passed,
and she did not appear in Emily's chamber.
With the latter it was a sleepless and dismal
night : the more she suffered her memory to
dwell on the late scene with Valancourt, the
more her resolution declined, and she was
obliged to recollect all the arguments which
the count had made use of to strengthen it,
and all the precepts which she had received
from her deceased father on the subject of
self-command, to enable her to act with pru-
dence and dignity on this the most severe
occasion of her life. There were moments
when all her fortitude forsook her, and when
remembering the confidence of former times,
she thought it impossible that she could re-
nounce Valancourt. His reformation then
appeared certain ; the arguments of Count
de Villefort were forgotten ; she readily be
lieved all she wished, and was willing to
encounter any evil, rather than that of an
immediate separation.

Thus passed the night in ineffectual strug
gles between affection and reason, and she
rose, in the morning, v/ith a mind, weakened
and irresolute, and a frame trembling with
illness.

CHAP. XL.

" Come, weep with me ;— -past hope, past cure,
past help ! "

ROMEO AND JULIET.

Valancourt, meanwhile, suffered the
tortures of remorse and despair. The sight
of Emily had renewed all the ardour with
which he first loved her, and which had suf-
fered a temporary abatement from absence
and the passing scenes of busy life. When
on the receipt of her letter, he set out for
Languedoc, he then knew that his own folly
had involved him in ruin, and it was no part
of his design to conceal this from her. But
he lamented only the delay which his ill con
duct mnst give to their marriage, and did

4

2ii<

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPIIO.

not foresee that the information could induce
her to break the connection for ever. While
the prospect of this separation overwhelmed
his mind, before stung with self-reproach,
he awaited their second interview in a state
little short of distraction, yet was still in-
clined to hope that his pleadings might pre-
vail upon her not to exact it. In the morn-
ing, he sent to know at what hour she would
see him ; and his note arrived when she was
with the count, who had sought an opportu-
nity of again conversing with her of Valan-
court ; for he perceived the extreme distress
of her mind, and feared, more than ever,
that her fortitude would desert her. Emily
having dismissed the messenger, the count
returned to the subject of their late conver-
sation, urging his fear of Valancourfs entrea-
ties, and again pointing out to her the
lengthened misery that must ensue if she
should refuse to encounter some present un-
easiness. His repeated arguments could,
indeed, alone have protected her from the
affection she still felt for Valancourt, and
she resolved to be governed by them.

The hour of interview, at length, arrived.
Emily went to it, at least, with composure
of manner; but Valancourt was so much
agitated, that he could not speak for several
minutes, and his first words were alternately
those of lamentation, entreaty, and self-re-
proach. Afterward, he said, " Emily, I
have loved you— I do love you better than
my life ; but I am ruined by my own con-
duct. Yet I would seek to entangle you in
a connection, that must be miserable for
you, rather than subject myself to the pu-
nishment which is my due — the loss of you.
I am a wretch, but I will be a villain* no
longer. — I will not endeavour to shake your
resolution by the pleadings of a selfish pas-
sion. I resign you, Emily, and will endea-
vour to find consolation in considering, that
though I am miserable, you, at least, may
be happy. The merit of the sacrifice is, in-
deed, not my own, for I should never have
attained strength of mind to surrender you,
if your prudence had not demanded it."

He paused a moment, while Emily at-
tempted to conceal the tears which came to
her eyes. She would have said, "You speak
now, as you were wont to do," but she
checked herself.— "Forgive me, Emily,"
said he, "all the sufferings I have occasioned
you, and, sometimes, when you think of the
wretched Valancourt, remember, that his
only consolation would be to believe, that
you are no longer unhappy by his folly ! "
The tears now fell fast upon her cheek, and
he was relapsing into the phrensy of despair,
when Emily endeavoured to recall her forti-
tude, and to terminate an interview which
only seemed to increase the distress of both.
Perceiving her tears, and that she was rising
*° g°> Valancourt struggled, once more, to

overcome his own feelings, and to soothe
her's. " The remembrance of this sorrow,"
said he, " shall in future be my protection.
O! never again will example, or temptation,
have power to seduce me to evil, exalted as
I shall be by the recollection of your grief
for me."

Emily was somewhat comforted by this
assurance. " We are now parting for ever,"
said she; "but if my happiness is dear to
you, you will always remember, that nothing
can contribute to it more than to believe
that you have recovered your own esteem."
Valancourt took her hand — his eyes were
covered with tears, and the farewell he would
have spoken was lost in sighs. After a few
moments, Emily said with difficulty and
emotion, " Farewell, Valancourt, may you be
happy !" She repeated her " Farewell," and at-
tempted to withdraw her hand, but he still
held it and bathed it with his tears. " Why pro-
long these moments," Emily said, in a voice
scarcely audible, " they are too painful to us
both." "This is too— too much !" exclaimed
Valancourt, resigning her hand, and throwing
himself into a chair, where he covered his
face with his hands, and was Overcome for
some moments by convulsive sighs. After
a long pause, during which Emily wept in
silence, and Valancourt seemed struggling
with his grief, she again rose to take leave
of him. Then, endeavouring to recover his
composure, " I am again afflicting you,"
said he, " but let the anguish I suffer plead
for me. He then added in a solemn voice,
which frequently trembled with the agita-
tion of his heart, " Farewell, Emily, you will
always be the only object of my tenderness.
Sometimes you will think of the unhappy
Valancourt, and it will be with pity, though
it may not be with esteem. O ! what is the
whole world to me, without you — without
your esteem I" He checked himself — " I
am falling again into the error I have just
lamented. I must not intrude longer upon
your patience, or I shall relapse into de-
spair."

He once more bade Emily adieu, pressed
her hands to his lips, looked at her for the
last time, and hurried out of the room.

Emily remained in the chair, where he
had left her, oppressed with a pain at her
heart, which scarcely permitted her to
breathe, and listening to his departing
steps, sinking fainter and fainter as he cros-
sed the hall. She was at length roused by
the voice of the countess in the garden, and
her attention being then awakened, the first
object which struck her sight was the va
cant chair where Valancourt had sat. The
tears which had been for some time repres-
sed, by the kind of astonishment that followed
his departure, now came to her relief, and
she was at length sufficiently composed to
return to her own room.

I

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO

25fb

CHAP. XLl.

' • This is no mortal business, nor no sound
That the earth owes ' "

SHAKSPEARE.

We now return to the mention of Mon-
toni, whose rage and disappointment were
soon lost in nearer interests, than any which
the unhappy Emily had awakened. His de-
predations having exceeded their usual li-
mits, and reached an extent, at which neither
the timidity of the then commercial senate
of Venice, nor their hope of his occasional
assistance, would permit them to connive,
the same effort it was resolved should com-
plete the suppression of his power and the
correction of his outrages. While a corps
of considerable strength was upon the point
of receiving orders to march for Udolpho,
a young office)-, prompted partly by resent-
ment for some injury received fiora Montoni,
and partly by the hope of distinction, so-
licited an interview with the minister who
directed the enterprise. To him he repre-
sented that the situation of Udolpho ren-
dered it too strong to be taken by open
force, except after some tedious operations ;
that Montoni had lately shown how capable
he was of adding to its strength all the ad-
vantages which could be derived from the
skill of a commander; that so considerable
a body of troops as that allotted to the ex-
pedition coulcfcnot approach Udolpho with-
out his knowledge ; and that it was not for
the honour of the republic to have a large
part of its regular force employed, for such
a time as the siege of Udolpho would require,
upon the attack of a handful of banditti. The
object of the expedition, he thought, might be
accomplished much more safely and speedily
by mingling contrivance with force. It was
possible to meet Montoni and his party
without their walls, and to attack them
then 5 or, by approaching the fortress with
the secresy consistent with the march of
smaller bodies of troops, to ta^ke advantage
either of the treachery or negligence of some
of his party, and to rush unexpectedly upon
the whole, even in the castle of Udolpho.

This advice was seriously attended to,
and the officer who gave it received the
command of the troops demanded for his
purpose. His first efforts were accordingly
those of contrivance alone. In the neigh-
bourhood of Udolpho he waited till he had
secured the assistance of several of the
Condotticri, of whom he found none that he
addressed unwilling to punish their impe-
rious master, and to secure their own par-
don from the senate. He learned also the
number of Montoni's troops, and that it had
been much increased since his late suc-
cesses. The conclusion of his. plan was
boon effected. Having returned with his

party, who received the watch-word, and
other assistance from their friends within,
Montoni and his officers were surprised by
one division, who had been directed to their
apartment, while the other maintained the
slight combat, which preceded the surrender
of the whole garrison. Among the persons
seized with Montoni was Orsino, the assas-
sin, who had joined him on his first arrival
at Udolpho, and whose concealment had
been made known to the senate by Count
Morano, after the unsuccessful attempt of
the latter to carry off Emily. It was, in-
deed, partly for the purpose of capturing
this man, by whom one of the senate had
been murdered, that the expedition was un-
dertaken ; and its success was so acceptable
to them, that Morano was instantly released,
notwithstanding the political suspicions
which Montoni, by his secret accusation,
had excited against him. The celerity and
ease with which this whole transaction was
completed, prevented it from attracting cu-
riosity, or even from obtaining a place in
any of the published records of that time 5
so that Emily, who remained in Languedoc,
was ignorant of the defeat and signal humi-
liation of her late persecutor.

Her mind was now occupied with suffer-
ings, which no effort of reason had yet been
able to controul. Count de Villefort, who
sincerely attempted whatever benevolence
could suggest for softening them, some-
times allowed her the solitude she wished
for, sometimes led her into friendly parties,
and constantly protected her, as much as
possible, from the shrewd enquiries and cri-
tical conversation of the countess. He often
invited her to make excursions with him and
his daughter, during which he conversed en-
tirely on questions suitable to her taste,
without appearing to consult it, and thus
endeavoured gradually to withdraw her from
the subject of her grief, and to awake other
interests in her mind. Emily, to whom he
appeared as the enlightened friend and pro-
tector of her youth, soon felt for him the
tender affection of a daughter, and her heart
expanded to her young friend Blanche as to
a sister, whose kindness and simplicity com-
pensated for the want of more brilliant qua-
lities. It was long before she could suffi
ciently abstract her mind from Valancourt
to listen to the story promised by old Doro-
thee, concerning which her curiosity had
once been so deeply interested -, but Doro-
thee, at length, reminded her of it, and
Emily desired that she would come that
night to her chamber.

Still her thoughts were employed by con-
siderations which weakened her curiosity ;
and Dorothee's tap at the door, soon after
twelve, surprised her almost as much as if it
had not been appointed. "I am come at
last, lady," said she j u I wonder what it

256

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO

is thai makes my old limbs shake so to-
night. I thought once or twice I should
have dropped as I was a coming:." Emily
seated her in a chair, and desired that she
would compose her spirits before she en-
tered upon the subject that had brought her
thither. " Alas !" said Dorothee, * it is
thinking of that, 1 believe, which has dis-
turbed me so. In my way hither, too, I
passed the chamber where my dear lady
died, and every thing was so still and
gloomy about me, that I almost fancied I
saw her as she appeared upon her death-
bed."

Emily now drew her chair near to Doro-
thee, who went on. " It is about twenty
years since my lady marchioness came a
bride to the chateau. O ! I well remem-
ber how she looked when she came into the
great hall, where we servants were all as-
sembled to welcome her, and how happy my
lord the marquis seemed. Ah ! who would
have thought then '.—But, as 1 was saying,
ma'amselle, I thought the marchioness,
with all her sweet looks, did not look happy
at heart ; and so 1 told my husband, and
he said it was all fancy : so I said no more,
but 1 made my remarks for all that. My
lady marchioness was then about your age,
and, as I have often thought, very like you.
Well ! my lord the marquis kept open house
for a long time, and gave such entertain-
ments, and there were such gay doings as
have never been in the chateau since, I
was younger, ma'amselle, than I am now,
and was as gay as the best of them. I re-
member 1 danced with Philip the butler,
in a pink gown with yellow ribbons, and a
coif, not such as they wear now, but plaited
nigh with ribbons all about it. It was very
becoming, truly ; — my lord, the marquis,
noticed me. Ah ! he was a good-natured
gentleman then — who would have thought
that he "

" But the marchioness, Dorothee,*1 said
Emily, " you was telling me of her."

" O yes, my lady marchioness ; 1 thought
she did not seem happy at heart, and once,
soon after the marriage, I caught her cry-
inff in her chamber •, but, when she saw
me, she dried her tears, and pretended to
smile. I did not dare then to ask what
was the matter ; but the next time I saw
her crying, I did, and she seemed displeased
—so I said no more. I found out, some
time after, how it was. Her father, it
seems, had commanded her to marry my
lord the marquis for his money, and there
was another nobleman, or else a chevalier,
that she liked better, and that was very
fond of her ; and she fretted for the loss of
liim, I fancy, but she never told me so.
My lady always tried to conceal her tears
from the marquis, for I have often seen her,
after she has been so sorrowful, look so

calm and sweet when he came into the room.
But my lord, all of a sudden, grew gloomy
and fretful, and very unkind sometimes to
my lady This afflicted her very much, as I
saw, for she never complained ; and she
used to try so sweetly to oblige him and to
bring him into a good humour, that my
heart has often ached to see it But he
used to be stubborn, and give her harsh an-
swers; and then, when she found it all in
vain, she would go to her own room ar;d
cry so !— -I used to hear her in the anti-
room, poor dear lady ! but I seldom ven-
tured to go to her. I used sometimes to
think my lord M'as jealous. To be sure,
my lady was greatly admired, but she was
too good to deserve suspicion. Among
the many chevaliers that visited at the
chateau, there was one that I always thought
seemed just suited for my lady ; he was so
courteous, yet so spirited •, and there was
such a grace, as it were, in all he did or
said, I always observed, that whenever he
had been there, the marquis was more
gloomy and my lady more thoughtful, and
it came into my head that this was the
chevalier she ought to have married, but
I never could learn for certain."

" What was the chevalier's name, Doro-
thee?" said Emily.

u Why that 1 will not tell even to you,
ma>amselle, for evil may come of it. I once
heard from a person, Mho is since dead, that
the marchioness was not in law the wife of
the marquis, for that she had before been
privately married to the gentleman she was
so much attached to, and was afterwards
afraid to own it to her father, who was a very
stern man ; but this seems very unlikely, and
I never gave much faith to it. As I was
saying, the marquis was most out of humour,
as I thought, when the chevalier I spoke of
had been at the chateau, and at last bis ill
treatment of my lady made her quite mise-
rable. He would see hardly any visitors at
the castle, arid made her live almost by her-
self. I was her constant attendant, and saw
all she suffere'd j but still she never com-
plained.

"After matters had gone on thus for near
a year, my lady was taken ill, and 1 thought
her long fretting had made her so— but, alas !
I fear it was worse than that."

" Worse ! Dorothee," said Emily, " can
that be possible ?'

" I fear it, was so, madam, there were
strange appearances ! But I will only tell
what happened. My lord, the marquis—"

« Hush, Dorothee, what sounds were those,"
said Emily.

Dorothee changed countenance, and, while
they both listened, they heard, on the stillness
of the night, music of uncommon sweetness.

"J have surely heard that voice before!"
said Emily, at length.

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

?&7

« 1 have often heard it, and at this same
hour," said Dorothee, solemnly ; " and if
«f»irits ever bring music— that is surely the
music of one f"

Emily, as the sounds drew nearer, knew
them to be the same she had formerly heard
at the time of her father's death ; and, whe-
ther it was the remembrance they now revi-
ved of that melancholy event, or that she was
struck with superstitious awe, it is certain
she was so much affected, that she had near-
ly fainted.

" 1 think I once told you, madam," said
Dorothee, "that I first heard this music
soon after my lady's death : I well remem-
ber the night !" —

" Hark* it comes again!" said Emily ;
€t let us open the window, and listen."

They did so •, but soon the sounds floated
gradually away into distance, and all was
again still : they seemed to have sunk among
the woods, whose tufted tops were visible
upon the clear horizon, while every other
feature of the scene was involved in the
night-shade, which, however, allowed the eye
an indistinct view of some objects in the
garden below.

As Emily leaned on the window, gazing
with a kind of thrilling awe upon the ob-
scurity beneath, and then upon the cloudless
arch above, enlightened only by the stars,
Dorothee, in a low voice, resumed her
narrative.

" I was saying, ma'amselle, that I well
remember when first I heard that music. It
was one night, soon after my lady's death,
that I had sat up later than usual, and 1
don't know how it was, but I had been
thinking a great deal about my poor mis-
tress, and of the sad scene I had lately wit-
nessed. The chateau was quite still, and I
was in a chamber at a good distance from
the rest of the servants, and this, with the
mournful things I had been thinking of, 1
suppose, made me low-spirited, for I felt
very lonely and forlorn, as it were, and
listened often, wishing to hear a sound in
the chateau; fbr you know, ma'amselle,
when one can hear people moving, one does
not so much mind about one's fears. But
all the servants were gone to bed, and I sat
thinking and thinking, till I was almost
afraid to look round the room, and my poor
lady's c©untenance often came to my mind,
such as I had seen her when she was dying ;
and once or twice, I almost thought I saw
her before me, — when suddenly 1 heard such
sweet music ! It seemed just at my window,
and I shall never forget what 1 felt. I had
not power to move from my chair, but then,
when I thought it was my dear lady's voice,
the tears came to my eyes. I had often heard
her sing in her life-time, and to be sure she
had a very fine voice ; it had made me cry
to hear her many a time, when she has sat in
her oriel, of an evening, playing upon her
S

lute such sad songs, and singing so — O,
it went to one's heart ! 1 have listened in the
anti-chamber for the hour together, and she
would sometimes sit playing with the
window open, when it was summer time,
till it was quite dark ; and when 1 have
gone in to shut it, she has hardly seemed to
know what hour it was. But, as I said,
madam," continued Dorothee, " when first
I heard the music that came just now, I
thought it was my late lady's, and I have
often thought so again when 1 have heard it,
as I have done at intervals ever since. Some-
times many months have gone by, but still
it has returned." •

"It is extraordinary," observed Emily,
"that no person has yet discovered the
musician."

" Aye, ma'amselle, if it had been any
thing earthly, it would have been discovered
long ago, but who could have courage
to follow a spirit ? and if they had, what
good could it do ? — for spirits, you know,
ma'am, can take any shape, or no shape,
and they will be here one minute, and the
next, perhaps, in a quite different place !"

" Pray resume your story of the marchio-
ness," said Emily, " and acquaint me with
the manner of her death."

"I will, ma'am," said Dorothee; " but
shall we leave the window ? "

u This cool air refreshes me," replied
Emily, " and I love to hear it creep along
the woods, and to look upon this dusky land-
scape. You was speaking of my lord, the
marquis, when the music interrupted us."

" Yes, madam, my lord the marquis be-
came more and more gloomy ; and my lady
grew worse and worse, till one night she
was taken very ill indeed. I was called up,
and when I came to her bed-side 1 was
shocked to see her countenance — it was so
changed ! she looked piteoustly up at me,
and desired I would call the marquis again,
for he was not yet come, and tell him
she had somethiug particular to to say to
him. At last he came, and he did, to i>e
sure, seem very sorry to see her, but he
said very little. My lady told him she felt
herself to be dying, and wished to speak
with him alone ; and then I left the room,
but I shall never forget his look as I went.

" When I returned, I ventured to remind
my lord about sending for a doctor, for I
supposed he had forgot to do so in his grief;
but my lady said it was then too late ; but
my lord, so far from thinking so, seemed
to think lightly of her disorder — till she was
seized with sueh terrible pains ! O, 1 neve/
shall forget her shriek ! My lord then sent
off a man and horse for a doctor, and walked
about the room and all over the chateau in
the greatest distress ; and I staid by my
dear lady, and did what I could to eas :
her sufferings. She had intervals of ease,
and in one of these site sent for my lord

•258

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO

iigain 5 wheu he came I was going, but she
desired I would not leave her. O ! I shall
never -forget what a scene passed — I can
hardly bear to think of it now ! *My lord
was almost distracted, for my lady behaved
with so much goodness, and took such pains
tojcomfort him, that if he ever had suffered
a suspicion to enter his head, he must now
have been convinced he was wrong. And
to be sure he did seem to be overwhelmed
with the thought of his treatment of her,
and this affected her so much, that she
fainted away.

" We then got my lord out of the room ;
he went into his library, and threw himself
on the floor, and there "he staid, and would
hear no reason that was talked to him.
When my lady recovered, she enquired
for him, but afterwards said she could not
bear to see his grief, and desired we wonld
let her die quietly. She died in my arms,
ma'amselle, and she went off as peacefully
as a child, for all the violence of her disor-
der was passed."

Dorothee paused and wept, and Emily
wept with her ; for she was much affected
by the goodness of the late marchioness, and
by the meek patience with which she had
suffered.

" When the doctor came," resumed Do-
rothee—u alas ! he came too late— he ap-
peared greatly shocked to see her, for soon
after her death a frightful blackness spread
all over her face. When he had sent the
attendants out of the room, he asked me seve-
ral odd questions about the marchioness, par-
ticularly concerning the manner in which she
had been seized, and he often shook his head
at my answers, and seemed to mean more
than he chose to say. But I understood him
too well. However, I kept my remarks to
myself, and only told them to my husband,
who bade me hold my tongue. Some of the
other servants, however, suspected what I
did, and strange reports were whispered
about the neighbourhood, but nobody dared
to make any stir about them. When my
lord heard that my lady was dead, he shut
himself up, and would see nobody but the
doctor, who used to be with him alone some-
times for an hour together ; and after that
the doctor never talked with me again about
my lady. When she was buried in the
church of the convent, at a little distance
yonder (if the moon was up, you might see
the towers here, ma'amselle), all my lord's
vassals followed the funeral, and there was
not a dry eye among them, for she had done
a deal of good among the poor. My lord,
the marquis, I never saw any body so me-
lancholy as he was afterwards, and some-
times he would be in such fits of violence,
that we almost thought he had lost his sen-
ses. He did not stay long at the chateau,
but joined his regiment ; and soon alter

all the servants, except my husband antf
I, received notice to go, for my lord went
to the wars. I never saw him after, f.,r
he would not return to the chateau, though
it is such a fine place and never finished
those fine rooms he was building on the west
side of it ; and it has, in a manner, been
shut np ever since, till my lord the count
came here."

" The death of the marchioness appears
extraordinary," said Emily, who was anxi
ous to know more than she dared to ask.

u Yes, madam," replied Dorothee, " it
was extraordinary ; 1 have told you all I
saw, and you may easily guess what I think.
I cannot say more, because 1 would not
spread reports that might offend my lord the
count."

" You are very right," said Emily ; —
" where did the marquis die ?" — " In the
north of France, I believe, ma'amselle," re-
plied Dorothee. I was very glad when 1
heard my lord the count was coming, for
this had been a sad desolate place these
many years, and we heard such strange
noises sometimes after my lady's death, that
as I told you before, my husband and 1 left
it for a neighbouring cottage. And now,
lady, I have told you all this sad history,
and all my thoughts, and you have promised,
you know, never to give the least hint about
it." — " 1 have,' said Emily, " and 1 will be
faithful to my promise, Dorothee -, — what
you have told has interested me more than
you can imagine. 1 only wish I could pre-
vail upon you to tell the name of the che-
valier whom you thought so deserving of
the marchioness."

Dorothee, however, steadily refused to do
this, and then returned to the notice of
Emily's likeness to the late marchioness.
" There is another picture of her," added
she, " hanging in a room of the suit that was
shut up. It was drawn, as I have heard,
before she was married, and is much more
like you than the miuiature." When Emily
expressed a strong desire to see this, Doro-
thee replied, that she did not wish to open
those rooms ; but Emily reminded her, that
the count had talked the other day of order-
ing them to be opened, of which Dorothee
seemed to consider much j and then that she
owned she should feel less, if she went into
them with Emily first, than otherwise and
at length promised to shew the picture.

The night was too far advanced, and
Emily was too much affected by the narra-
tive of the scenes which had passed in those
apartments, to desire to visit them at this
hour ; but she requested that Dorothee
would return on the following night, when
they were not likely to be observed, and
conduct her thither. Besides her wish to
examine the portrait, she. felt a thrilling cu
riosity to see the chamber in which tlie

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

2f»9

marchioness had died, and which Dorothee
had said remained, with the bed and furni-
ture, just as when the corpse was removed
for interment. The solemn emotions which
the expectation of viewing such a scene had
awakened were in unison with the present
tone of her mind, depressed by severe disap-
pointment. Chearful objects rather added
to, than removed this depression ; but per-
haps she yielded too much to her melan-
choly inclination, and imprudently lamented
the misfortune, which no virtue of her own
could have taught her to avoid, though no
effort of reason could make her lock un-
moved upon the self-degradation of him
whom she had once esteemed and loved.

Dorothee promised to return, on the fol-
lowing night, with the keys of the chambers,
and then wished Emily good repose and de-
parted. Emily, however, continued at the
window, musing upon the melancholy fate
of the marchioness, and listening, in awful
expectation, for a return of the music. But
the stillness of the night remained long un-
broken, except by the murmuring sounds of
the woods, as they waved in the breeze, and
then by the distant bell of the convent,
striking one. She now withdrew from the win-
dow, and, as she sat at her bed-side, indulg-
ing melancholy reveries, which the loneliness
of the hour assisted, the stillness was sud-
denly interrupted, not by music, but by
very uncommon sounds, that seemed to
come either from the room adjoining her
own, or from one below. The terrible ca-
tastrophe that had been related to her, toge-
ther with the mysterious circumstances, said
to have since occurred in the chateau, had
so much shocked her spirits, that she now
sunk, for a moment, under the weakness of
superstition. The sounds, however, did not
return, and she retired, to forget in sleep
the disastrous story she had heard.

CHAP. XLII.

** Now is the time of night,

That, the graves all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,

In the church-way path to glide."

SHAKSPEARE.

On the next night, about the same hour
as before, Dorothee came to Emily's cham-
ber with the keys of that suit of rooms
which had been particularly appropriated
to the late marchioness. These extended
along the north side of the chateau, form-
ing part of the old building ; and, as Emily's
room was in the south, they had to pass
over a great extent of the castle, and by the
chambers of several of the family, whose
observations Dorothee was anxious to avoid,
since it might excite enquiry and raise re-
ports, such as would displease the count.
She therefore requested that Emily would
wait half an hour before they ventured forth,

that they might be certain an the servants
were gone to bed. It was nearly one before
the chateau was perfectly still, or Dorothee
thought it was prudent to leave the cham-
ber. In this interval, her spirits seemed to
be greatly affected by the remembrance ot
past events, and by the prospect of entering
again upon places where these had* oc
curred, and in which she had not been for so
many years. Emily too was affected, but
her feelings had more of solemnity, and less
of fear. From the silence into which re-
flection and expectation had thrown them,
they, at length, roused themselves, and lef>
the chamber. Dorothee, at first, carried the
lamp, but her hand trembled so much with
infirmity and alarm, that Emily took it from
her, and offered her arm to support her fee-
ble steps.

They had to descend the great staircase,
and, after passing over a wide extent of the
chateau, to ascend another, which led to the
suit of rooms they were in quest of. The>
stepped cautiously along the open corridor
that ran round the great hall, and into which
the chambers of the count, countess, and
.the Lady Blanche, opened, and, from thence,
descending the chief staircase, they crossed
the hall itself. Proceeding through the ser-
vants' hall, where the dying embers of a
wood fire still glimmered on the hearth, and
the supper table was surrounded by chairs
that obstructed their passages, they came
to the foot of the back staircase. Old Do-
rothee here paused, and looked around :
" Let us listen," said she, " if any thing
is stirring; ma'amselle, do you hear any
voice!" "None," said Emily, "there cer-
tainly is no person up in the chateau, besides
ourselves." — " No, ma'amselle," said Doro-
thee, " but I have never been here at this
hour before, and, after what I know, my
fears are not wonderful." — "What do you
know ?" said Emily. — " O ma'amselle, we
have no time for talking now j let us go oh.
That door on the left is the one we must
open."

They proceeded, and, having reached the
top of the staircase, Dorothee applied the
key to the lock. " Ah," said she, as she en-
deavoured to turn it, " so many years have
passed since this was opened, that I fear it
will not move." Emily was more success-
ful, and they presently entered a spacious
and ancient chamber.

" Alas !" exclaimed Dorothee, as she en-
tered, " the last time I passed through this
door — I followed my poor lady's corpse !"

Emily, struck by the circumstance, and
affected by the dusky and solemn air of the
apartment, remained silent, and they pas-
sed on through a long suit of rooms, till they
came to ono more spacious than the rest,
and rich in the remains of faded mag in
ficence.

MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

" Let us rest here awhile, madam," said
Dorothee faintly, " we are going into the
chamher where my lady died ! that door
opens into it. Ah, ma'amselle ! why did
you persuade me to come ?"

Emily drew one of the massy arm-chairs,
with which the apartment was furnished,
and begged Dorothee would sit down, and
try to compose her spirits.

" How the sight of this place brings all
that passed formerly to my mind!" said
Dorothee ; " it seems as if it was but yes-
terday since all that sad affair happened !"

a Hark ! what noise is that ?" said Emily.

Dorothee, half starting from her chair,
looked round the apartment, and they lis-
tened— but, every thing remaining still, the
old woman spoke again upon the subject of
her sorrow : " This salloon, ma'amselle, was
in my lady's time the finest apartment in
the chateau, and it was fitted up according
to her own taste. All this grand furniture,
but you can now hardly see what it is for
the dust, and our light is none of the best—
ah ! how 1 have seen this room lighted up in
my lady's time ! all this grand furniture
came from Paris, and was made after the
fashion of some in the Louvre there, except
those large glasses, and they came from
some outlandish place, and that rich tapes-
try. How the colours are faded already ! —
since I saw it last !"

" I understood that was twenty years
ago," observed Emily.

" Thereabout, madam," said Dorothee,
u and well remembered, but all the time be-
tween then and now seems as nothing. That
tapestry used to be greatly admired at : it
tells the stories out of some famous book,
or other, but I have forgot the name."

Emily now rose to examine the figures it
exhibited, and discovered, by verses in the
Provencal tongue, wrought underneath each
scene, that it exhibited stories from some of
the most celebrated ancient romances.

Dorothee's spirits being now more com-
posed, she rose, and unlocked the door that
led into the late marchioness's apartment,
and Emily passed into a lofty chamber,
hung round with dark arras, and so spaci-
ous, that the lamp she held up did not shew
its extent ; while Dorothee, when she en-
tered, had dropped into a chair, where sigh-
ing deeply, she scarcely trusted herself with
the view of a scene so affecting to her. Jt
was some time before Emily perceived,
through the dusk, the be4 on which the mar-
chioness was said to have died ; when, ad-
vancing to the upper end of the room, she
discovered the high canopied tester of dark
green damask, with the curtains descending
to the floor in the fashion of a tent, half
drawn, and remaining apparently as they
had been left twenty years before; and over
the whole bedding was thrown a counter-

pane, or pall, of black velvet, that hung
down to the floor. Emily shuddered, as she
help the lamp over it, and looked within the
dark curtains, where she almost expected to
have seen a human face, and, suddenly re-
membering the horror she had suffered
upon discovering the dying Madame Mon-
toni in the turret chamber of Udolpho, her
spirits fainted, and she was turning from
the bed, when Dorothee, who had now
reached it, exclaimed, i( Holy Virgin ! me-
thinks I see my lady stretched upon that
pall — as when last I saw her !"

Emily, shocked by this exclamation,
looked involuntarily again within the cur-
tains, but the blackness of the pall only ap-
peared ; while Dorothee was compelled to
support herself upon the side of the bed,
and presently tears brought her some relief.
. a Ah !" said she, after she had wept
awhile, " it was here I sat on that terrible
night, and held my lady's hand, and heard
her last words, and saw all her sufferings—
here she died in my arms !"

" Do not indulge these painful recollec-
tions," said Emily, " let us go. Shew me
the picture you mentioned, if it will not too
much affoct you."

" It hangs in the oriel," said Dorothee.
rising, and going towards a small door near
the bed's head, which she opened, and
Emily followed with the light, into the clo-
set of the late marchioness.

" Alas ! there she is, ma'amselle," said
Dorothee, pointing to a portrait of a lady,
" there is her very self! just as she looked
when she came first to the chateau. You
see, madam, she was all blooming like you,
then — and so soon to be cut off!"

While Dorothee spoke, Emily was atten-
tively examining the picture, which bore a
strong resemblance to the miniature, though
the expression of the countenance in each
was somewhat different ; but still she
thought she perceived something of that
pensive melancholy in the portrait, which so
strongly characterised the miniature.

" Pray, ma'amselle, stand beside the pic-
ture, that I may look at you together," said
Dorothee, who, when the request was com-
plied with, exclaimed again at the resem-
blance. Emily also, as she gazed upon it,
thought that she had somewhere seen a per-
son very like it,, though she could not now
recollect who this was.

In this closet were many memorials of the
departed marchioness ; a robe and several
articles of her dress were scatterred upon
the chairs, as if they had just been thrown
off. On the floor were a pair of black satin
slippers, and, on the dressing-table, a pair
of gloves, and a long black veil, which, as
Emily took it up to examine, she perceived
was dropping to pieces with age.

" Ah !" said Dorothee, observing the veil

THE MYSTERIES OE UDOLPHO.

261

m my lady's hand laid it there ; it has never
been moved since !"

Emily, shuddering, immediately laid it
down again. " 1 well remember seeing hei
take it off," continued Dorothee, " it was on
the night before her death, when she had re-
turned from a little walk 1 had persuaded
her to take in the gardens, and she seemed
refreshed by it. I told her how much better
she looked, and I remember what a languid
smile she gave me ; but, alas ! she little
thought, or I either, that she was to die that
night."

Dorothee wept again, and then, taking up
the veil, threw it suddenly over Emily, who
shuddered to find it wrapped round her,
descending even to her feet, and, as she en-
deavoured to throw it off, Dorothee entreat-
ed that she would keep it on for one mo-
ment. M I thought," added she, " how like
you would look to my dear mistress, in that
veil ; — may your life, ma'amselle, be a hap-
pier one than her's !"

Emily, having disengaged herself from
the veil, laid it again on the dressing-table,
and surveyed the closet, where every object
on which her eye fixed seemed to speak of
the marchioness. In a large oriel window
of painted glass, stood a table, with a silver
crucifix, and a prayer-book open ; and
Emily remembered with emotion what Do-
rothee had mentioned concerning her cus-
tom of playing on her lute in this window,
before she observed the lute itself lying on a
corner of the table, as if it had been careless-
ly placed there by the hand that had so
often awakened it.

a This is a sad forlorn place !" said Doro-
thee, " for, when my dear lady died, I had no
heart to put it to rights, or the chamber
cither j and my lord never came into the
rooms after; so they remain just as they
did when my lady was removed for inter-
ment."

While Dorothee spoke, Emily was still
looking on the lute, which was a Spanish
one, and remarkably large ; and then, with
a hesitating hand, she took it up, and passed
her fingers over the chords. They were out
of tune, but uttered a deep and full sound.
Dorothee started at their well-known tones,
and seeing the lute in Emily's hand, said,
" This is the lute my lady marchioness
loved so ! I remember when last she played
upon it — it was on the night that she died.
1 came as usual to undress her, and as I en-
tered the bed-chamber, I heard the sound of
music from the oriel, and perceiving it was
my lady's, who was sitting there, I stepped
softly to the door, which stood a little open, to
listen for the music — though it was mournful
•—was so sweet ! There I saw her, with the
lute in her hand, looking upwards, and the
tears fell upon her cheeks, while she sung a

vesper hymn, so soft, and so solemn ! and
her voice trembled, as it were, and then she
would stop for a moment and wipe away her
tears, and go on again, lower than before,
O! I had often listened to my lady, but
never heard any thing so sweet as this ; it
made me cry almost to hear it. She had
been at prayers, I fancy, for there was the
book open on the table beside her— -aye,
and there it lies open still ! Pray, let us
leave the oriel, ma'amselle," added Doro-
thee, u this is a heart-breaking place !"

Having returned into the chamber, she
desired to look once more upon the bed,
when, as they came opposite to the open
door, leading into the saloon, Emily, in the
partial gleam, which the lamp threw into it,
thought she saw something glide along into
the obscurer part of the room. Her spirits
had been much affected by the surrounding
scene, or it is probable this circumstance,
whether real or imaginary, won Id not have af-
fected her in the degree it did ; but she en-
deavoured to conceal her emotion from Doro-
thee, who, however, observing her counte-
nance change, enquired if she was ill.

" Let us go," said Emily, faintly, " the
air of these rooms is unwholesome ;" but
when she attempted to do so, considering
that she must pass through the apartment
where the phantom of her terror had ap-
peared, this terror increased; and, too faint
to support herself, she sat down on the side
of the bed.

Dorothee, believing that she was on\y
affected by a consideration of the melan-
choly catastrophe which had happened on
this spot, endeavoured to cheer her; and
then, as they sat together on the bed, she be-
gan to relate other particulars concerning it,
and this without reflecting that it might in-
crease Emily's emotion, but because they
were particularly interesting to herself. " A
little before my lady's death," said she,
" when the pains were gone off, she called
me to her, and stretching out her hand to
me, I sat down just there — where the cur-
tain falls upon the bed. How well I re-
member her look at the time — death was in
it ! — I can almost fancy I see her now.—
There she lay, ma'amselle — her face was
upon the pillow there ! This black coun-
terpane was not upon the bed then ; tt was
laid on, after her death, and she was laid out
upon it."

Emily turned to look within the dusky
curtains, as if she could have seen the coun-
tenance of which Dorothee spoke. The edge
of the white pillow only appeared above the
blackness of the pall, but, as her eyes wan-
dered over the pall itself, she fancied she
saw it move. Without speaking, she caught
Dorothee's arm, who, surprised by the ac
tion, and by the look of terror that accoin

262

1IIE MYSTERIES OF L'DOLPHO

panied it, turned her eyes from Emily ro the
bed, where, hi the next moment she, too,
saw the pall slowly lifted and fall again.

Emily attempted to go, but Dorothee
stood fixed and gazing upon the bed ;
and at length, said—" It is only the wind
that waves it, ma'amselle ! we have left all
t he doors open : see how the air waves the
lamp, too— it is only the wind."

She had scarcely uttered these words,
when the pall was more violently agitated
than before ; but Emily, somewhat ashamed
of her terrors, stepped back to the bed, wil-
l.ng to be convinced that the wind only had
occasioned her alarm ; when, as she gazed
within the curtains, the pall moved again,
and, in the next moment, the apparition of
a human countenance rose above it.

Screaming with terror, they both fled, and
got out of the chamber as fast as their
trembling limbs would bear them, leaving
open the doors of all the rooms through
which they passed. When they reached the
staircase, Dorothee threw open a chamber
door, where some of the female servants
slept, and sunk breathless on the bed; while
Emily, deprived of all presence of mind,
made only a feeble attempt to conceal the
occasion of her terror from the astonished
servants ; and though Dorothee, when she
could speak, endeavoured to laugh at her
own fright, and was joined by Emily, no
remonstrances could prevail with the ser-
vants, who had quickly taken the alarm, to
pass even the remainder of the night in a
room so near to these terrific chambers.

Dorothee having accompanied Emily to
her own apartment, they then began to talk
over, with some degree of coolness, the
strange circumstance that had just oc-
curred ; and Emily would almost have
doubted her own perceptions, had not those
of Dorothee attested their truth. Having
now mentioned what she had observed in
the outer chamber, she asked the house- •
keeper, whether she was certain no door had
been left unfastened, by which a person
might secretly have entered the apart-
ments ? Dorothee replied, that she had
constantly kept the keys of the several
doors in her own possession; that, when
she had gone her rounds through the castle,
as she frequently did, to examine if all was
safe, she had tried these doors among the
rest, and had always found them fastened.
It was, therefore, impossible, she added,
that any person could have got admittance
into the apartments ; and, if they could — it
was very improbable they should have
chosen to sleep in a place so cold and for-
lorn.

Emily observed that their visit to these
chambers had, perhaps, been watched, and
that some person, for a frolic, had followed

them into the rooms with a design fi>
frighten them ; and, while they were in rbe
oriel, had taken the opportunity of conceal-
ing himself in the bed.

Dorothee allowed that this was possible,
till she recollected, that on entering the
apartments, she had turned the key of the
outer door, and this, which had been done to
prevent their visit being noticed by any of
the family, who might happen to be up,
must effectually have excluded every per-
son, except themselves, from the chambers ;
and she now persisted in affirming, that the
ghastly countenance she had seen was no-
thing human, but some dreadful apparition.

Emily was very solemnly affected. Of
whatever nature might be the appearance
she had witnessed, whether human or super-
natural, the fate of the deceased marchio-
ness was a truth not to be doubted j and
this unaccountable circumstance, occurring
in the very scene of her sufferings, affected
Emily's imagination with a superstitious
awe, to which, after having detected the fal-
lacies at Udolpho, she might not have yield-
ed, had she been ignorant of the unhappy
story related by the housekeeper. Her she
now solemnly conjured to conceal the occur-
rence of this night, and to make light of the
terror she had already betrayed, that the
count might not be distressed by reports,
which would certainly spread alarm and
confusion among his family. " Time," she
add°xl, may explain this mysterious affair ;
meanwhile let us watch the event in si-
fence."

Dorothee readily acquiesced ; but she
now recollected that she had left all the
doors of the north suit of rooms open, and,
not having courage to return alone to lock
even the outer one, Emily, after some effort,
so far conquered her own fears that she
offered to accompany her to the foot of the
back staircase, and to wait there while Do-
rothee ascended; whose resolution being
re-assured by this circumstance, she con-
sented to g-o, and they left Emily's apart-
ment together.

No sound disturbed the stillness, as they
passed along the halls and galleries ; but,
on reaching the foot of the back staircase,
Dorothee's resolution failed again. Hav-
ing, however, paused a moment to listen,
and no sound being heard above) she as-
cended, leaving Emily below, and, scarcely
suffering her eye to glance within the first
chamber, she fastened the door, which shut
up the whole suit of apartments, and re-
turned to Emily.

As they stepped along the passage, lead-
ing into the great hall, a sound of lamen-
tation was heard, which seemed to come
from the hall itself, and they stopped in
new alarm to listen, when Emily presently

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOM'HO.

!><3

distinguished the voice of Annette, whom
she found crossing the hall, with another
female servant, and so terrified by the
report which the other maids had spread,
that, believing she could be safe only where
her lady was, she was going for refuge to
her apartment. Emily's endeavours to
laugh, or to argue her out Of these ter-
rors, were equally vain \ and, in compas-
sion to her distress, she consented that she
should remain in her room during the
night.

CHAP. XLTII.

nan, mildly-pleasing Solitude !
Companion of the wise and good!

"Hail, mil

Thine is the balmy breath of morn,
Just as the dew-bent rose is born.

But chief when evening scenes decay,
And the faint landscape swims away,
Thine is the doubtful soft decline,
And that best hour of musing thine."

Thomson.

Emily's injunctions to Annette to be
silent on the subject of her terror were inef-
fectual, and the occurrence of the preceding
night spread such alarm among the ser
vants, who now all affirmed that they had
frequently heard unaccountable noises in
the chateau, that a report soon reached the
count of the north side of the castle being
haunted. He treated this, at first, with ri-
dicule ; but, perceiving that it was produc-
tive of serious evil, in the confusion it occa-
sioned among his household, he forbade any
person to repeat it on pain of punishment.

The arrival of a party of his friends soon
withdrew his thoughts entirely from this
subject ; and his servants had now little
leisure to brood over it, except, indeed, in
the evenings after supper, when they all as-
sembled in their hall, and related stories of
ghosts, till they feared to look round the
room ; started if the echo of a closing door
murmured along the passage, and refused to
go singly to any part of the castle.

On these occasions Annette made a dis-
tinguished figure. When she told not only
of all the wonders she had witnessed, but of
all that she had imagined, in the castle of
Udolpho, with the story of the strange dis-
appearance of Signora Laurentini, she made
no trifling impression on the mind of her
attentive auditors. Her suspicions con-
cerning Montoni she would also have freely
disclosed, had not Lndovico, who was now
in the service of the count, prudently
checked her loquacity, whenever it pointed
to that subject.

Among the visitors at the chateau were

the Baron de Saint Foix, an old friend of the
count, and his son, the Chevalier St. Foix,
a sensible and amiable young man, who
having, in the preceding year, seen the Lady
Blanche at Paris, had become her declared
admirer. The friendship which the count
had long entertained for his father, and the
equality of their circumstances, made him
secretly approve of the connection \ but
thinking his daughter at this time too young
to fix her choice for life, and wishing to
prove the sincerity and strength of the che-
valier's attachment, he then rejected his suit,
though without forbidding his future hope.
This youug man now came, with the baron
his father, to claim the reward of a steady
affection, a claim which the count admitted,
and which Blanche did not reject.

While these visitors were at the chateau,
it became a scene of gaiety and splendour.
The pavilion in the woods was fitted up and
frequented, in the fine evenings, as a sup-
per-room, when the hour usually concluded
with a concert, at which the count and
countess, who were scientific performers,
and the Chevaliers Henry and St. Foix, with
the Lady Blanche and Emily, whose voices
and fine taste compensated for the want of
more skilful execution, usually assisted. —
Several of the count's servants performed on
horns and other instruments, some of which,
placed at a little distance among the woods,
spoke in sweet response to the harmony
that proceeded from the pavilion.

At any other period these parties would
have been delightful to Emily ; but her
spirits were now oppressed \* ith a melan-
choly, which she perceived that no kind of
what is called amusement had power to dis-
sipate, and which the tender, and frequently
pathetic, melody of these concerts some-
times increased to a very painful degree.

She was particularly fond of walking in
the woods, that hung on a promontory over-
looking the sea. Their luxuriant shade
was soothing to her pensive mind ; and, in
the partial views which they afforded of the
Mediterranean, with its winding shores and
passing sails, tranquil beauty was united
with grandeur. The paths were rude, and
frequently overgrown with vegetation, but
their tasteful owner would suffer little to be
done to them, and scarcely a single branch
to be lopped from the venerable trees. O.i
an eminence, in one of the most sequestered
parts of these woods, was a rustic seiit,
formed of the trunk of a decayed oak, which
had once been a noble tree, and of which
many lofty branches still flourishing united
with beech and pines to over-canopy the
spot. Beneath their deep umbrage the eye
passed over the tops of other woods to the
Mediterranean 3 and, to the left, through an
opening, was seen a ruined watch-tower,

•lauding on a point of rock, near the sea,
and rising: from among the tufted foliage.

Hither Emily often came alone in the si-
lence of evening, and, soothed by the sce-
nery and by the faint murmur that rose from
the waves, would sit, till darkness obliged
her to return to the chateau. Frequently,
also, she visited the watch-tower, which
commanded the entire prospect ; and, when
she leaned against its broken walls, and
thought of Valancourt, she not once ima-
gined, what was so true, that this tower had
been almost as frequently his resort as her
own, since his estrangement from the neigh-
bouring chateau.

One evening she lingered here to a late
hour. She had sat on the steps of the build-
ing, watching, in tranquil melancholy, the
gradual effect of evening over the extensive
prospect, till the grey waters of the Medi-
terranean, and the massy woods, were al-
most the only features of the scene that re-
mained visible ; when, as she gazed alter-
nately on these, and on the mild blue of the
heavens, where the first pale star of evening
appeared, she personified the hour in the
following lines :—

SONG OF THE EVENING HOUR.

Last of the hours, that track the fading day,
1 move along the realms of twilight air,

And hear, remote, the choral song decay
Of sister-nymphs, who dance around his
ear.

Then, as I follow through the azure void,
His partial splendour from my straining eye

Sinks in the depth of s»paL? , my only guide
Hi§ faint rev dawning on the farthest sky ;

Save that sweet, lingering strain of gayer
hours,
Whose close my voice prolongs in dying
notes ;
While mortals on the green earth own its
pow'rs,
As downward on the evening gale it floats.

When fades along the west the sun's last
beam,
As weary, to the nether world he goes,
And mountain-summits catch the purple
gleam,
And slumbering ocean faint and fainter
glows.

Silent upon the globe's broad shade I steal,
And o'er its dry turf shed the cooling dews,

And evVy fever'd herb and flow'ret heal,
And all theii fragrance on the air diffuse.

Where'er I move a tranquil pleasure reigns °9
O'er all the scene the dusky tints I send,
That forests wild and mountains, stretching
plains,
And peopled towns, in sof* confusion
blend.

Wide o'er the world 1 waft the fresh'ning

wind,

Low breathing through the woods and

twilight vale,

In whispers soft, that woo the pensive mind

Of him who loves my lonely steps to hail.

His tender oaten reed I watch to hear,
Stealing its sweetness o'er some plaining
rill ;
Or soothing ocean's wave, w hen storms art
near,
Oj swelling in the hretee from dutant hilU

THE M TORIES OP 1DULVUO

</6S

I wake the fairy elves, who shun the light;

When, from their blossom' d beds, they

slily peep,

And spy my pale star, leading on the night,

Forth to their games and revelry they

leap ;

Send all the prison'd sweets abroad in air,
That with them slumber'd in the flow'rets'
cell;
Then to the shores and moon-light brooks
repair,
Till the high larks their matin-carol swell.

The wood-nymphs hail my airs and tem-
pered shade,
With ditties soft, and lightly sportive
dance,
On river margin of some bowYy glade,
And strew their fresh buds as my steps
advance.

But swift I pass, and distant regions trace,
For moon-beams silver all the eastern
cloud,
And day's last crimson vestige fades apace ;
Down the steep west I fly from Mid-
night's shroud.

The moon was now rising4 out of the sea.
She watched its gradual progress, the ex-
tended line of radiance it threw upon the
waters, the sparkling oars, the sail faintly
silvered, and the wood-tops and the battle-
ments of the watch-tower, at whose foot she
was sitting, just tinted with the rays.—
Emily's spirits were in harmony with this
scene. As she sat meditating, sounds stole
by her on the air, which she immediately
^cnew to be the music and the voice she had
formerly heard at midnight, and the emo-
tion of awe which she felt was not unmixed
with terror, when she considered her remote
and lonely situation. The sounds drew
nearer. She would have risen to leave the
place, but they seemed to come from the
way she must have taken towards the cha-
teau ; and she awaited the event in trem-
bling expectation. The sounds continued
to approach for some time, and then ceased.
Emily sat listening, gazing, and unable to
move, when she saw a figure emerge from
the shade of the woods, and pass along the
bank, at some little distance before her. It
went swiftly ; and her spirits were so over-
come with awe, that, though she saw, she
did not much observe it.

Having left the spot, with a resolution
never again to visit it alone at so late an
hour, she began to approach the chateau,
when she heard voices calling her from the
part of the wood which was nearest to it.—
They were the shouts of the count's ser-
vants, who were sent to search for her ; and
when she entered the supper-room, where
he sat with Henri and Blanche, he gently

reproached her witha look, which she blushed
to have deserved.

This little occurrence deeply impressed
her mind; and when she withdrew to her
own room, it recalled so forcibly the cir-
cumstances she had witnessed a few nights
before, that she had scarcely courage to re-
main alone. She watched to a late hour;
when, no sound having renewed her fears,
she, at length, sunk to repose. But this
was of short continuance, for she was dis-
turbed by a loud and unusual noise that
seemed to come from the gallery, into
which her chamber opened. Groans were
distinctly heard, and immediately after a
dead weight fell against her door, with a
violence that threatened to burst it open.
She called loudly to know who was there,
but received no answer, though, at intervals,
she still thought she heard something like a
low moaning. Fear deprived her of the
power to move. Soon after, she heard foot-
steps in a remote part of the gallery ; and,
as they approached, she called more loudly
than before, till the steps paused at her
door. She then distinguished the voices of
several of the servants, who seemed too
much engaged by some circumstance with-
out to attend to her calls ; but Annette soon
after entering the room for water, Emily
understood that one of the maids had
fainted, whom she immediately desired them
to bring into her room, where she assisted to
restore her. When this girl had recovered
her speech, she affirmed, that as she was
passing up the back-staircase, in the way to
her chamber, she had seen an apparition on
the second landing-place : she held the lamp
low, she said, that she might pick her way,
several of the stairs being infirm and even
decayed, and it was upon raising her eyes
that she saw this appearance. It stood for
a moment in the corner of the landing-place,
which she was approaching, and then,
gliding up the stairs, vanished at the door
of the apartment that had been lately open-
ed. She heard afterwards a hollow sound.

" Then the devil has got the key to that
apartment," said Dorothee, " for it colud be
nobody but he ; I locked the door myself."

The girl, springing down the stairs and
passing up the great staircase, bad run, with
a faint scream, till she reached the gallery,
where she fell, groaning at Emily's door.

Gently chiding her for the alarm she had
occasioned, Emily tried to make her ashamed
of her fears ; but the girl persisted in saying
that she had seen an apparition, till she
went to her own room, whither she was ac-
companied by all the servants present, ex-
cept .Dorothee, who, at Emily's request,
remained with her during the night. Emily
was perplexed, and Dorothee was terrified,
and mentioned many occurrences of former
times, which had long since confirmed her

206

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

superstitions ; among these, according to her
oelief, she had once witnessed an appear-
ance like that just described, and on the very
same spot ; and it was the remembrance of
it that had made her pause, when she was
going to ascend the stairs with Emily, and
which had increased her reluctance to open
the north apartments. Whatever might be
Emily's opinions, she did not disclose them,
but listened attentively to all that Dorothee
communicated, which occasioned her much
thought and perplexity.

From this night the terror of the servants
increased to such an excess, that several of
them determined to leave the chateau, and
requested their discharge of the count, who,
if he had any faith in the subjects of their
alarm, thought proper to dissemble it, and,
anxious to avoid the inconvenience that
threatened him, employed ridicule, and then
argument, to convince them they had nothing
to apprehend from supernatural agency.
But fear had rendered their minds inacces-
sible to reason ; and it was now that Ludo-
vico proved at once his courage and his
gratitude for the kindness he had received
from the count, by offering to watch, du-
ring a night, in the suit of rooms reputed
to be haunted. He feared, he said, no
spirits ; and if any thing of human form ap-
peared— he would prove that he dreaded
that as little.

The count paused upon the offer, while
the servants, who heard it, looked upon one
another in doubt and amazement ; and An-
nette, terrified for the safety of Ludovico,
employed tears and entreaties to dissuade
him from his purpose.

" You are a bold fellow," said the count,
smiling: "think well of what you are going
to encounter before you finally determine
upon it. However, if you persevere in
your resolution, I will accept your offer,
and your intrepidity shall not go unre-
warded."

"I desire no reward, your excellenxa"
replied Ludovico, " but your approbation.
Your excellenza has been sufficiently good
to me already ; but 1 wish to have arms,
that I may be equal to my enemy, if he
should appear."

" Your sword cannot defend you against
a ghost," replied the count, throwing a
glance of irony upon the other servants;
"neither can bars or bolts 5 for a spirit,
you know, can glide through a key-hole as
easily as through a door."

" Give me a sword, my lord count," said
Ludovico, "and I will lay all the spirits
that shall attack me in the Red Sea."

"Well," said the 'count, " you shall have
a sword, and good cheer too ; and your brave
comrades here will, perhaps, have courage
enough to remain another night in the cha-
teau, since vour boldness will certainlv for

this night at least, confine all the malice of
the spectre to yourself."

Curiosity now struggled with fear in the
minds of several of his fellow-servants, and
at length they resolved to await the event of
Ludovico's rashness.

Emily was surprised and concerned when
she heard of his intention, and was fre-
quently inclined to mention what she had
witnessed in the north apartments, to the
count, for she could not entirely divest her-
self of fears for Ludovico's safety, though
her reason represented these to be absurd.
The necessity, however, of concealing the
secret with which Dorothee had entrusted
her, and which must have been mentioned
with the late occurrence, in excuse for her
having so privately visited the north apart-
ments, kept her entirely silent on the sub-
ject of her apprehension ; and she tried only
to soothe Annette, who held, that Ludovico
was certainly to be destroyed; and who
was much less affected by Emily's consola-
tory efforts, than by the manner of old Do.
rothee, who often, as she exclaimed Ludo-
vico, sighed, and threw up her eyes to
heaven.

CHAP. XLIV.

" Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound !
Whose soft dominion o'er this castle sways,
And all the widely-silent places round,
Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays
What never. yet was sung in mortal lays/'

Thomson.

The count gave orders for the north
apartments to be opened, and prepared for
the reception of Ludovico ; but Dorothee,
remembering what she had lately witnessed
there, feared to obey, and not one of ike.
other servants daring to venture thither, the
rooms remained shut up till the time when
Ludovico was to retire thither for the night,
an hour for which the whole household
waited with impatience.

After supper, Ludovico, by the order of
the count, attended him in his closet, where
they remained alone for near half an hour ;
and on leaving which, his lord delivered to
him a sword.

" It has seen service in mortal quarrels,"
said the count, jocosely ; " you will use it
honourably, no doubt, in a spiritual one.
To-morrow let me hear that there is not one
ghost remaining in the chateau."

Ludovico received it with a respectful
bow. "You shall be obeyed, my lord,"
said he; "1 will engage that no spectre
shall disturb the peace of the chateau after
this night."

They now returned to the supper-room,
where the count's guests awaited to accom-
pany him and Ludovico to the door of the

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

9tf'

north apartments, and Dorothee, being sum-
moned for the keys, delivered them to Lu-
dovico, who then led the way, followed by
most of the inhabitants of the chateau.
Having reached the back staircase, several
of the servants shrunk back, and refused to
go further, but the rest followed him to the
top of the staircase, where a broad landing
place allowed them to flock round him,
while he applied the key to the door, du-
ring which they watched him with as much
eager curiosity as if he had been performing
some magical rite.

Ludovico, unaccustomed to the lock,
could not turn it ; and Dorothee, who had
lingered far behind, was called forward,
under whose hand the door opened slowly ;
and, her eye glancing within the dusky cham-
ber, she uttered a sudden shriek, and retreat-
ed. At this signal of alarm, the greater
part of the crowd hurried down the stairs,
and the count, Henri, and Ludovico, were
left alone to pursue the enquiry, who instant-
ly rushed into the apartment — Ludovico with
a drawn sword, which he had just time to
draw from the scabbard ; the count with the
lamp in his hand : and Henri carrying a
basket, containing provision for the coura-
geous adventurei .

Having looked hastily round the first
room, where nothing appeared to justify
alarm, they passed on to the second ; and
here too all being quiet, they proceeded to a
third in a more tempered step. The count
had now leisure to smile at the discomposure
iuto which he had been surprised, and to ask
Ludovico in which room he designed to pass
the night.

u There are several chambers beyond
these, your excellenza" said Ludovico, point-
ing to a door, " and in one of them is a bed,
they say. I will pass the night there ; and
when I am weary of watching, I can lie
down."

" Good," said the count ; " let us go on.
You see these rooms shew nothing but damp
walls and decaying furniture. I have been
so much engaged since I came to the chateau,
that I have not looked into them till now.
Kemember, Ludovico, to tell the housekeper,
to-morrow, to throw open these windows.
The damask hangings are dropping to pieces :
[ will have them taken down, and this an-
tique furniture removed."

" Dear sir !" said Henri, " here is an arm-
chair so massy with gilding, that it resem-
bles one of the state chairs at the Louvre,
more than any thing else."

" Yes," said the count, stopping a mo-
ment to survey it, u there is a history belong-
ing to that chair, but I have not time to tell
it — let us pass on. This suit runs to a great-
er extent than I had imagined ; it is many
years since 1 was in them. But where is the
bed-room you speak of, Ludovico? — these

are only anti-chambers to the great drawing
room. I remember them in their splendour !"

" The bed my lord," replied Ludovico,
" they told me was in a room that opens
beyond the saloon, and terminates the suit."

" O, here is the saloon," said the count, as
they entered the spacious apartment, in
which Emily and Dorothee had rested. He
here stood for a moment, surveying the re-
liques of faded grandeur which it exhibited
— the sumptuous tapestry — the long and
low sofas of velvet, with frames heavily
carved and gilded — the floor inlaid with
small squares of fine marble, and covered in
the centre with a piece of very rich tapestry
work — the casements of painted glass— and
the large Venetian mirrors, of a size and
quality such as at that period France could
not make, which reflected on every side the
spacious apartment. These had formerly
also reflected a gay and brilliant scene, for
this had been the state-room of the chateau,
and here the marchioness had held the
assemblies that made part of the festivals
of her nuptials. If the wand of a magician
could have recalled the vanquished groups,
many of them vanished even from the
earth ! that once had passed over these
polished mirrors, what a varied and contrast-
ed picture would they have exhibited with
the present ! Now, instead of a blaze of
lights, and a splendid and busy crowd, they
reflected only the rays of the one glimmer-
ing lamp, which the count held up, and
which scarcely served to shew the three
forlorn figures that stood surveying the
room, and the spacious and dusky walls
around them.

" Ah ! said the count to Henri, awaking
from his deep reverie, " how the scene is
changed since last I saw it! I was a young
man, then; and the marchioness was alive
and in her bloom ; many other persons were
here, too, who are now no more ! There
stood the orchestra; here we tripped in
many a sprightly maze — the walls echoing
to the dance ! Now, they resound only one
feeble voice — and even that will, ere long,
be heard no more ! i\Iy son, remember, that
I was once as young as yourself, and that
you must pass away like those who have
preceded you — like those who, as they sung
and danced in this once gay apartment, for-
got that years are made up of moments,
and that every step they took carried them
nearer to their graves. But such reflections
are useless, I had almosl said criminal ; un
less they teach us to prepare for eternity
since, otherwise, they cloud our present hap
piness, without guiding us to a future one.
But enough of this — let us go on."

Ludovico now opened the door of the bed
room, and the count, as he entered, was
struck with the funeral appliance which
the dark anas gave to it. He approached

2fT8

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

the bed with an emotion of solemnity, and,
perceiving it to be covered with the pall of
black velvet, paused: " What can this mean ?"
said he, as he gazed upon it.

" I have heard, my lord," said Ludovico,
as he stood at the feet, looking within the
canopied curtains, " that the Lady Marchi-
oness de Villeroi died in this chamber, and
remained here till she was removed to be
buried ; and this, perhaps, signor, may ac-
count for the pall."

The count made no reply, but stood for
a few moments engaged in thought, and,
evidently, much affected. Then, turning to
Ludovico, he asked him with a serious air,
whether he thought his courage would sup-
port him through the night ? " If you doubt
this," added the count, " do not be ashamed
to own it ; I will release you from your en-
gagement without exposing you to the tri-
umphs of your fellow-servants."

Ludovico paused ; pride, and something
very like fear, seemed struggling in his
breast : pride, however, was victorious 3—
he blushed, and his hesitation ceased.

" No, my lord," said he, " I will go
through with whatl have begun 3 and I am
grateful for your consideration. On that
hearth I will make afire, and, with the good
cheer in this basket, i doubt not I shall do
well."

" Be it so," said the count 3 " but how
will you beguile the tediousness of the night
ii you do not sleep ?"

"When I am weary," my lord, "replied
Ludovico, " I shall not fear to sleep ; in the
meanwhile I have a book that will entertain
me."

" Well," said the count, " I hope nothing
will disturb you 3 but if you should be seri-
ously alarmed in the night, come to my
apartment. I have too much confidence in
your good sense and courage to believe you
will be alarmed on slight grounds 3 or suffer
the gloom of this chamber, or its remote si-
tuation, to overcome you with ideal terrors.
To-morrow I shall have to thank you for an
important service ; these rooms shall then
be thrown open, and my people will be con-
vinced of their error. Good night, Ludovico 3
let me see you early in the morning, and re-
member what I lately said to you."

" I will, my lord 3 good night to your ear-
cellenza — let me attend you with the light."

He lighted the count and Henri through
the chambers to the outer door. On the
landing-place stood a lamp, which one of the
affrighted servants had left, and Henri, as he
took it up, again bade Ludovico good night,
who, having respectfully returned the wish,
closed the door upon them, and fastened it.
Then, as he retired to the bed -chamber, he
examined the rooms through which he pass
< d, with more minuteness than he had done
before, for he apprehended that some person

might have concealed himself in them, for
the purpose of frightening' him. No one,
however, but himself, was in these chamber*
and leaving open the doors, through whicb
he passed, he came again to the great draw-
ing-room, whose spaciousness and silent
gloom somewhat awed him. For a moment
he stood, looking back through the long suit
of rooms he had quitted, and, as he turned,
perceiving a light and his own figure reflect-
ed in one of the large mirrors, he started.—
Other objects too were seen obscurely on its
dark surface, but he paused not to examine
them, and returned hastily into the bed-room,
as he surveyed which, he observed the door
of the oriel, and opened it. All within was
still. On looking round, his eye was arrested
by the portrait of the deceased marchioness,
upon which he gazed for a considerable time
with great attention and surprise 3 and then,
having examined the closet, he returned into
the bed room, where he kindled a wood fire,
the bright blaze of which revived his spirits,
which had begun to yield to the gloom and
silence of the place, for gusts of wind alone
broke at intervals this silence. He now drew
a small table and a chair near the fire, took
a bottle of wine, and some cold provision out
of a basket, and regaled himself. When he
had finished his repast, he laid his sword
upon the table, and, not feeling disposed to
sleep, drew from his pocket the book he had
spoken of. It was a volume of old Proven-
gal tales. — Having stirred the fire into a
brighter blaze, trimmed his lamp, and drawn
his chair upon the hearth, he began to read,
and his attention was soon wholly occupied
by the scenes which the page disclosed.

The count, meanwhile, had returned to
the supper-room, whither those of the party
who attended him to the north apartment
had retreated, upon hearing Dorothee's
scream, and who were now earnest in their
enquiries concerning those chambers. The
count rallied his guests on their precipitate
retreat, and on the superstitious inclination
which had occasioned it 5 and this led to the
question, Whether the spirit, after it has
quitted the body, is ever permitted to revisit
the earth 3 and if it is, whether it was possi-
ble for spirits to become visible to the sen?e ?
The baron was of opinion, that the first was
probable, and the last was possible ; and he
endeavoured to justify this opinion by re-
spectable authorit ies, both ancient and mo-
dern, which he quoted. The count, however,
was decidedly against him 3 and a long con
versation ensued, in which the usual argu-
ments on these subjects were on both sides
brought forward with skill, and discussed
with candour, but without converting either
party to the opinion of his opponent. The
effect of their conversation on their auditors
was various. Though the count had much
the superiority of the baron in point of ar-

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO

26*9

guincnt, he had considerably fewer adherents ;
hv that love, so natural to the human mind,
of whatever is able to distend its faculties
with wonder and astonishment, attached the
majority of the company to the side of the
baron ; and though many of the count's pro-
positions were unanswerable, his opponents
were inclined to believe this the consequence
of their own want of knowledge on so ab-
stracted a subject, rather than that arguments
did not exist which were forcible enough to
conquer his.

Blanche was pale with attention, till the
ridicule in her father's glance called a blush
upon her countenance, and she then endea-
voured to forget the superstitious tales she
had been told in her convent. Meanwhile,
Emily had been listening with deep attention
to the discussion of what was to her a very
interesting question, and remembering the
appearance she had witnessed in the apart-
ment of the late marchioness, she was fre-
quently chilled with awe. Several times she
was on the point of mentioning what she had
6een, but the fear of giving pain to the count,
and the dread of his ridicule, restrained her ;
and awaiting in anxious expectation the
event of Ludovico's intrepidity, she determi-
ned that her future silence should depend
upon it.

When the party had separated far the
night, and the count retired to his dressing-
room, the remembrance of the desolate scenes
he had lately witnessed in his own mansion
deeply affected him, but at length he was
aroused from his reverie and his silence.—
" What music is that I hear ?" said he sud-
denly lo his valet ; " who plays at this late
hour ?" -

The man made no reply ; and the count
continued to listen, and then added, "That
is no common musician ; he touches the in-
strument with a delicate hand — who is it,
Pierre ?"

" My lord !" said the man, hesitatingly.

" Who plays that instrument ?" repeated
the count.

"Does not your lordship know, then?"
said the valet.

" What mean you ?" said the count some-
what sternly.

" Nothing, my lord, T meant nothing," re-
joined the man submissively— " Only — that
music — goes about the house at midnight
often, and I thought your lordship might
have heard it before."

" Music goes about the house at midnight !
Poor fellow ! — does nobody dance to the mu-
sic, too ?"

" It is not in the chateau, I believe, my
lord ; the sounds come from the woods, they
say, though they seem so near ; — but then a
spirit can do any thing !"

" Ah, poor fellow !" said the count, " 1
perceive you are as silly as the rest of them ,
to-morrow you will be convinced of your ri-
diculous error. But hark!— what voice is
that ?"

" Oh, my lord ! that is the voice we often
hear with the music."

"Often!" said the count; "how often,
pray ? It is a very fine one."

? Why, my lord, I myself have not heard
it more than two or three times, but there
are those who have lived here longer, that
have heard it often enough."

" What a swell was that !" exclaimed the
count, as he still listened — " and now what a
dying cadence ! This is surely something
more than mortal !*

" That is what they say, my lord," said
the valet ; " they say it is nothing mortal
that utters it; and if I might say my thoughts

" Peace !" said the count ; and he listened
till the strain died away.

" This is strange !" said he, as he turned
from the window.— " Close the casements,
Pierre."

Pierre obeyed, and the count soon after
dismissed him, but did not so soon lose the
remembrance of the music, which long vi-
brated in his fancy in tones of melting sweet,
ness, while surprise and perplexity engaged
his thoughts.

Ludovico, meanwhile, in his remote cham-
ber, heard now and then the faint echo of a
closing door as the family retired to rest, and
then the hall-clock, at a great distance, strike
twelve. " It is midnight," said he, and he
looked suspiciously round the spacious cham-
ber. The tire on the hearth was now nearly
expiring, for his attention having been enga-
ged by the book before him, he had forgotten
every thing besides ; but he soon added fresh
wood, not beeause he was cold, though the
night was stormy, but because he was cheer-
less ; and having again trimmed his lamp, he
poured out a glass of wine, drew his chair
nearer to the crackling blaze, tried to be
deaf to the wind that bowled mournfully at
the casements, endeavoured to abstract his
mind from the melancholy that was stealing
upon him, and again took up his book. It
had been lent to him by Dorothee, who had
formerly picked it up in an obscure corner of
the marquis's library, and who, having open-
ed it and perceived some of the marvels it
related, had carefully preserved it for her
own entertainment, its condition giving her
some excuse for detaining it from its proper
station. The damp corner into which it had
fallen had caused the cover to be disfigured
and mouldy, and the leaves to be so disco-
loured with spots, that it was not without
difficulty the letters could be traced. The

270

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

fictions of the Provencal writers, whether
drawn from the Arabian legends brought by
the Saracens into Spain, or recounting the
chivalric exploits performed by the crusaders
whom the Troubadours accompanied to the
east, were generally splendid, and always
marvellous both in scenery and incident ; and
it is not wonderful that Dorothee and Ludo-
vico should be fascinated by inventions,
which had captivated the careless imagina-
tion in every rank of society in a former age.
Some of the tales, however, in the book now
before Ludovico were of simple structure,
and exhibited nothing of the magnificent
machinery and heroic manners which usually
characterized the fables of, the twelfth cen-
tury, and of this description was the one he
now happened to open ; which in its original
style was of great length, but which may be
thus shortly related. The reader will per-
ceive that it is strongly tinctured with the
superstition of the times.

The Provencal Tale.

"There lived, in the province of Bre-
tagne, a noble baron, famous for his magni-
ficence and courtly hospitalities. His castle
was graced with ladies of exquisite beauty,
and thronged with illustrious knights 5 for
the honours he paid to feats of chivalry in-
vited the brave of distant countries to enter
his lists, and his court was more splendid
than those of many princes. Eight minstrels
were retained in his service, who used to
sing to their harps romantic fictions taken
from the Arabians, or adventures of chivalry
that befel knights during the crusades, or
the martial deeds of the baron, their lord ;■—
while he, surrounded by his knights and la-
dies, banquetted in the great hall of his cas-
tle, where the costly tapestry that adorned
the walls with pictured exploits of his ances-
tors, the casements of painted glass enriched
with armorial bearings, the gorgeous banners
that waved along the roof, the sumptuous
canopies, the profusion of gold and silver that
glittered on the sideboards, the numerous
dishes that covered the tables, the number
and gay liveries of the attendants, with the
chivalric and splendid attire of the guests,
united to form a scene of magnificence, such
as we may not hope to see in these degene-
rate days.

Of the baron the following adventure is
related. One night, having retired late from
the banquet to his chamber, and dismissed
his attendants, he was surprised by the ap-
pearance of a stranger of a noble air, but of
a sorrowful and dejected countenance. Be-
lieving that this person had been secreted in
the apartment, since it appeared impossible
he could have lately passed the anti-room
unobserved by the pages in waiting, who
would have prevented this intrusion on their
ord, the baron, calling loudly for h.s people,

drew his sword, which he had not yet taken
from his side, and stood upon his defence.—

The stranger, slowly advancing, told him
that there was nothing to fear ; that he came
with no hostile design, but to communicate
to him a terrible secret, which it was neces-
rary for him to know.

The baron, appeased by the courteous
manners of the stranger, after surveying
him for some time in silence, returned his
sword into the scabbard, and desired him
to explain the means by which he had ob-
tained access to the chamber, and the pur
pose of this extraordinary visit.

" Without answering either of these in-
quiries, the stranger said, that he could not
then explain himself, but that, if the Baron
would follow him to the edge of the forest,
at a short distance from the castle walls,
he would there convince him that he had
something of importance to disclose.

" This proposal again alarmed the baron,
who would scarcely believe that the stran-
ger meant to draw him to so solitary a
spot at this hour of the night, without
harbouring a design against his life*, aid
he refused to go, observing, at the same
time, that if the stranger's purpose was
an honourable one, he would not persist in
refusing to reveal the occasion of his Visit
in the apartment where they were.

u While he spoke this, he viewed the
stranger still more attentively than before,
but observed no change in his countenance,
or any symptom that might intimate a con-
sciousness of evil design. He was habited
like a knight, was of a tall and majestic-
stature, and of dignified and courteous
manners. Still, however, he refused to
communicate the subject of his errand in
any place but that he had mentioned ; and,
at the same time, gave hints cencerning
the secret he would disclose, that awakened
a degree of solemn curiosity in the baron,
which at length induced him to consent
to the stranger on certain conditions.

« Sir knight," said he, " I will attend
you to the forest, and will take with me
only four of my people, who shall witness
our conference."

" To this, however, the knight objected.

u What I would disclose," said he, with
solemnity, (C is to you alone. There are
only three living persons to whom the cir-
cumstance is known : it is of more conse-
quence to you and your house than I
shall now explain. In future years you
will look back to this night with satis-
faction or repentance, accordingly as you
now determine. As you would hereafter
prosper — follow me ; I pledge you the
honour of a knight, that no evil shall befal
you. If you are contented to dare futu-
rity— remain in your chamber, and I will
depart as I came."

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

271

« Sir Wight," replied* the baron, " how
is it possible that my future peace can de-
Dcnd upon my present determination ?"

" That is not now to be told," said the
stranger ; " 1 have explained myself to the
utmost. It is late; if you follow me, it
must be quickly j— you will do well to
consider the alternative."

" The baron mused, and, as he looked
upon the knight, he perceived his counte-
nance assume a singular solemnity."

[Here Ludovico thought he heard a
noise, and he threw a glance round the
chamber, and then held up the lamp to
assist his observation ; but not perceiving
any thing to confirm his alarm, he took
up the book again, and pursued the story.]

" The baron paced his apartment «for
some time in silence, impressed by the
words of the stranger, whose extraordinary
request he feared to grant, and feared also
to refuse. At length, he said, " Sir knight,
you are utterly unknown to me; tell me
yourself, — is it reasonable, that I should
trust myself alone with a stranger, at this
hour, in a solitary forest ? Tell me, at
least, who you are, and who assisted to
secrete you in this chamber."

" The knight frowned at these latter
words, and was a moment silent ; then,
with a countenance somewhat stern, he
said,

" I am an English knight ; I am called
Sir Bevys of Lancaster, — and my deeds are
not unknown at the Holy City, whence I
was returning to my native land, when
1 was benighted in the neighbouring
forest."

" Your name is not unknown to fame,"
said the baron, I have heard of it."
(The knight looked haughtily.) "But
'vhy, since my castle is known to entertain
ail true knights, did not your herald an-
nounce you? Why did you not appear at
the banquet where your presence would
have been welcomed, instead of hiding your-
self in my castle, and stealing to my cham-
ber at midnight?"

" The stranger frowned, and turned away
in silence; but the baron repeated the
questions.

" I come not," said the knight, " to
answer enquiries, but to reveal facts.
If you would know more, follow me, and
again I pledge the honour of a knight that
you shall return in safety. Be quick in
your determination — I must be gone."

" After some further hesitation, the
baron determined to follow the stranger, and
to &ee the result of his extraordinary request.
i"e therefore again drew forth his sword,
bttd, taking up a lamp, bade the knight
lead on. The latter obeyed, and opening
the door of the chamber, they passed into

an anti-room, where the baron, surprised to
find all his pages asleep, stopped, and
with hasty violence was going to reprimand
them for their carelessness, when the knight
waved his hand, and looked so expressively
upon the baron, that the latter restrained
his resentment, and passed on.

"The knight, having descended a stair-
case, opened a secret door which the baron
had believed was known only to himself,
and proceeding through several narrow and
winding passages, came at length to a small
gate that opened beyond the walls of the
castle. Meanwhile, the baron had followed
in silence and amazement, on perceiving
that these secret passages were so well
known to a stranger, and felt inclined to
return from an adventure that appeared to
partake of treachery as well as danger.
Then, considering that he was armed, and
observing the courteous and noble air of
his conductor, his courage returned, he
blushed that it had failed him for a moment,
and he resolved to trace the mystery to its
source.

" He now found himself on the heathy plat-
form, before the great gates of his castle,
where, on looking up, he perceived lights
glimmering in the different casements of
the guests, who were retiring to sleep ; and,
while he shivered in the blast, and looked
on the dark and desolate scene around him,
he thought of the comforts of his warm
chamber, rendered cheerful by the blaze of
wood, and felt, for a moment, the full con-
trast of his present situation.

[Here Ludovico paused a moment, and,
looking at his own fire, gave it a brightening
stir.]

" The wind,$was strong, and the baron
watched his lamp with anxiety, expect-
ing every moment to see it extinguished ;
but though the flame wavered, it did not
expire, and he still followed the stranger,
who often sighed as he went, but did not
speak.

" When they reached the borders of the
forest, the knight turne 1 and raised his head,
as if he meant to address the baron, but
then closing his lips in silence, he walk-
ed on.

" As they entered beneath the dark and
spreading boughs, the baron, affected by the
solemnity of the scene, hesitated whether
to proceed, and demanded how much further
they were to go. The knight replied only
by a gesture, and the baron, with hesitating
steps and a suspicious eye, followed through
an obscure and intricate path, till, having
proceeded a considerable way, he again
demanded whither they were going, and re-
fused to proceed unless he was informed.

" As he said this, he looked at his own
sword and at the knight alternately, who

172

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOIJPHO.

shook his heud, and whose dejected counte-
nance disarmed the baron, for a moment, of
suspicion.

"A little further is the place, whither I
Would lead you," said the stranger ; " no
evil shall befal you — I have sworn it on the
honour of a knight."

"The baron, re-assured, again followed
in silence, and they soon arrived at a deep
recess of the forest, where the dark and lofty
chesnuts entirely excluded the sky, and which
was so overgrown with under-wood, that
ihey proceeded with difficulty. The knight
signed deeply as he passed, and sometimes
paused ; and having at length reached a
spot, where the trees crowded into a knot, he
turned, and with a terrific look, pointing to
the ground, the baron saw there the body of
a man, stretched at its length, and weltering
m blood; a ghastly wound was on the fore-
head, and death appeared already to have
contracted the features.

" The baron, on perceiving the spectacle,
started in horror, looked at the knight for
explanation, and was then going to raise
the body, and examine if there were yet
any remains of life ; but the stranger, wav-
ing his hand, fixed upon him a look so ear-
nest and mournful, as not only much sur-
prised him, but made him desist.

"But what were the baron's emotions,
when, on holding the lamp near the fea-
ures of the corpse, he discovered the exact
resemblance of the stranger his conductor,
to whom he now looked up in astonishment
and enquiry ! As he gazed, he perceived
the countenance of the knight change and
begin to fade, till his whole form gradually
vanished from his astonished sense ! While
the baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice
was heard to utter these words :— "

[Ludovico started, and laid down the
book, for he thought he heard a voice in the
chamber, and he looked toward the bed,
where, however, he saw only the dark cur-
tains and the pall. He listened, scarcely
daring to draw his breath, but heard only
the distant roaring of the sea in the storm,
and the blast that rushed by the casements ;
when, coucluding that he had been deceived
by its sighings, he took up his book to finish
the story.]

" While the baron stood, fixed to the
spot, a voice was heard to utter these
words :-—

* " The body of Sir Bevys of Lancaster, a
noble knight of England, lies before you.
He was this night way-laid and murdered,
as he journeyed from the Holy City towards
his native land. Respect the honour of
knighthood, and the law of humanity, inter
the body in christian ground, and cause his
murderers to be punished. As ye observe
or neglect this, shall peace and happiness,
or war and misery, light upon you and your
%ouse for ever! "

" The baron, when he recovered from the
awe and astonishment into which this adven-
ture had thrown him, returned to his castle,
whither he caused the body of Sir Bevys to
be removed ; and, on the following day, it
was interred, with the honours of knight-
hood, in the chapel of the castle, attended
by all the noble knights and ladies who
graced the court of the Baron de Brunne."

Ludovico, having finished this story, laid
aside the bonk, for he felt drowsy, and, af-
ter putting more wood on the fire, and tak-
ing another glass of wine, he reposed himself
in the arm-chair on the hearth. In his
dream he still beheld the chamber where he
really was, and, once or twice, started from
imperfect slumbers, imagining he saw a
man's face looking over the high back of
his arm-chair. This idea had so strongly
im pressed him, that, when he raised his
eyes, he almost expected to meet other eyes,
fixed upon his own, and he quitted his seat,
and looked behind the chair, before he felt
perfectly convinced that no person was there.

Thus closed the hour.

CHAP. XLV.

" Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber;
Thou hast no figures, nor no fantusies,
Which busy care draws in the brains of men ;
Therefore thou sleep'st so sound."

Shakspeare.

This count, who had slept little during
the night, rose early, and anxious to speak
with Ludovico, went to the north apart-
ment ; but the outer door having been fas-
tened on the preceding night, he was obliged
to knock loudly for admittance. Neither
the knocking or his voice was heard ; but
considering the distance of this door from
the bed-room, and that Ludovico, wearied
with watching, had probably fallen into a
deep sleep, the count was not surprised on
receiving no answer ; and leaving the door,
he went down to walk in his grounds.

It was a grey autumnal morning. The sun
rising over Provence, gave only a feeble light,
as his rays struggled through Hhe vapours
that ascended from the sea, and floated heavily
over the wood-tops, which were now varied
with many a yellow tint of autumn. The
storm was passed, but the waves were yet
violently agitated, and their course was
traced by long lines of foam, while not a
breeze fluttered in the sails of the vessels
near the shore that were weighing anchor to
depart. The still gloom of the hour was
pleasing to the count, and he pursued his
way through the woods, sunk in deep thought

Emily also rose at an early hour, and
took Iter customary walk along the brow
of the promontory, that overhung the
Mediterranean. Her mind waa now "not

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

$n

occupied with the occurrences of the cha-
teau, ami Valancourt was the subject of her
mournful thoughts, whom she had not yet
taught herself to consider with indifference,
though her judgment constantly reproached
her for the a fleet ion that lingered in her
heart, after her esteem for him was departed.
Remembrauce frequently gave her his part-
ing look and the tones of his voice, when
he bade her a last farewell ; and some
accidental associations now recalling these
circumstances to her fancy with peculiar
energy, she shed bitter tears to the recol-
lection.

Having reached the watch-tower, she
seated herself on the broken steps, and in
melancholy dejection watched the waves,
half hid in vapour, as they came rolling to-
wards the shore, and threw up their light
spray round the rocks below. Their hollow
murmur, and the obscuring mists that came
in wreaths up the cliffs, gave a solemnity to
the scene, which was in harmony with the
temper of her mind ; and she sat, given up
to the remembrance of past times, till this
became too painful, and she abruptly quitted
the place. On passing the little gate of the
watch-tower, she observed letters engraved
on the stone postern, which she paused to
examine ; and though they appeared to
have been rudely cut with a pen-knife, the
characters were familiar to her. At length,
recognizing the hand-writing of Valancourt,
she read, with trembling anxiety, the fol-
lowing lines, entitled

SHIPWRECK.

*Trs Solemn midnight ! On this lonely steep,
Beneath, this watch-tow Ys desolated wall,
IVnere mystic shapes the wonderer appal,
I nst; and view below the desert deep,
As through tempestuous cloud3 the moon's cold light
Gleams on the wave. Viewless, the winds of night
With loud mysterious force the billows sweep,
And sullen roar the surges, far below.
la the still pauses of the gust I hear
The voice of spirits, rising sweet and slow,
And oft among the clouds their forms appear.
But har* ! wtrat shriek of death comes in the gali>,
And in the distant ray what glimmering sail
Bends to the storm 1 Now sinks the note of fear I
Ah ! wretched mariners! — no more shall day
Unclose his cheering eye to light ye on your way !

From these lines it appeared that Valan-
court had visited the tower ; that he had
probably been here on the preceding night,
tor it was such a one as they described, and
that he had left the building very lately,
since it had not long been light, and with,
out light it was impossible these letters
could have been cut. It was thus even pro*
babie that he might be yet in the gardens.

As these reflections passed rapidly over
the mind of Emily, they called up a variety
of contending emotions, that almost over-
came her spirits ; but her first impulse was
to avoid him ; and, immediately leaving th#
T

tower, she returned with hasty steps towards
the chateau. As she passed along, she re
membered the music she had lately heard
near the tower, with the figure which had
appeared ; and in this moment of agitation
she was inclined to believe that she had then
heard and seen Valancourt ; but other recol-
lections soon convinced her of her error.—
On turning into a thicker part of the woods,
she perceived a person walking slowly in
the gloom at some little distance ; and her
mind engaged by the idea of him, she started
and paused, imagining this to be Valancourt.
The person advanced with quicker steps,
and, before she could recover recollection
enough to avoid him, he spoke, and she
then knew the voice of the count, who ex-
pressed some surprise on finding her walk-
ing at so early an hour, and made a feeble
effort to rally her on her love of solitude.—
But he soon perceived this to be more a sub-
ject of concern than of light laughter; and,
changing his manner, affectionately expos
tulated with Ernily on thus indulging un
availing regret, who, though she acknow
ledged the justness of all he said, could not
restrain her tears while she did so, and he
presently quitted the topic. Expressing
surprise at not having yet heard from his
friend, the advocate at Avignon, in answer
to the questions proposed to him, respecting
the estates of the late Madame Montini, he,
with friendly zeal, endeavoured to cheet
Emily with hopes of establishing her claim
to them; while she felt that the estates
could now contribute little to the happiness
of a life in which Valancourt had no longer
an interest*
• When they returned to the chateau, Emily
retired to her apartment, and Count De
Villefort to the door of the north chambers.
This was still fastened ; but, being now de-
termined to arouse Ludovico, he renewed
his calls more loudly than before 5 after
which a total silence ensued, and the count,
finding all his efforts to be heard ineffec-
tual, at length began to fear that some ac-
cident had befallen Ludovico, whom terror
of au imaginary being might have deprived
of his senses. He therefore left the door
with an intention of summoning his servants
to force it open, some of whom he now
heard moving in the lower part of the cha-
teau.

To the count's enquiries whether they
had seen or heard Ludovico, thqy replied,
in affright, that not one of them had ven-
tured on the north side of the chateau since
the preceding night.

" He sleeps soundly then," said the count,
" and is at such a distance from the outer
door, which is fastened, that to gain admit-
tance to the chambers, it will be necessary
to force it. Bring an instrument, and fol-
low me"

271

THE MYSTKRiES OF UDOLPHO.

The servant stood mute and dejected;
anil it was not till nearly all the household
were assembled, that the count's orders were
obeyed. In the mean time, Dorothee was
telling of a door that opened from a gallery
leading from the great staircase into the last
anti-room of the saloon ; and this being
much nearer to the bed-chamber, it appeared
probable that Ludovico might be easily
awakened by an attempt to open it. Thi-
ther, therefore, the count went ; but his voice
as ineffectual at this door as it had

was

proved at the remoter one : and now, seri-
ously interested for Ludovico, he was him-
self going to strike upon the door with the
instrument, when he observed its singular
beauty, and withheld the blow. It appeared
on the first glance to be of ebony, so dark
and close was its grain, and so high its po-
lish ; but k proved to be only of larch wood,
of the growth of Provence, then famous for
its forests of larch. The beauty of its po-
lished hue, and of its delicate carvings, de-
termined the count to spare this door, and
he returned to that leading from the back
staircase, which being at length forced, he
entered the first anti-room, followed by
Henri and a few of the most courageous of
his servants, the rest awaiting the event
of the enquiry on the stairs and landing-
place.

All was silent in the chambers through
which the count passed ; and having reached
the saloon, he called loudly upon Ludovico ;
after which, still receiving no answer, he
threw open the door of the bed-room, and
entered.

The profound stillness within confirmed
his apprehensions for Ludovico, for not even '
the breathings of a person in sleep were
heard ; and his uncertainty was not soon
terminated, since the shutters being all
closed, the chamber was too dark for any
object to be distinguished in it.

The count bade a servant open them,
who, as he crossed the room to do so, stum-
bled over something, and fell to the floor,
when his cry occasioned such panic among
tbe few of his fellows who had ventured
thus far, that they instantly fled, and the
count and Henri were left to finish the ad-
venture.

Henri then sprung across the room, and,
opening a window-shutter, they perceived
that the man had fallen over a chair near
the hearth in which Ludovico had been sit-
ting ; for he sat there no longer, nor could
any where be seen by the imperfect light
that was admitted into the apartment. The
count, seriously alarmed, now opened other
shutters, that he might be enabled to examine
further; and Ludovico not yet appearing,
he stood for a moment suspended in asto-
nishment, and scarcely trusting his senses,
till his eyes glancing on the bed, he advanced

to examine whether he was there asleep.—
No person, however, was in it, and he pro-
ceeded to the oriel, where every thing re-
mained as on the preceding night, but
Ludovico was no where to be found.

The count now checked his amazement,
considering that Ludovico might have left
the chambers during the night, overcome by
the terrors which their lonely desolation, and
the recollected reports concerning them,
had inspired. Yet, if this had been the fact,
the man would naturally have sought so-
ciety, and his fellow-servants had all de-
clared they had not seen him 3 the door of
the outer room also had been found fast-
ened, with the key on the inside : it was
impossible, therefore, for him to have passed
through that, and all the outer doors of this
suit were found, on examination, to be bolted
and locked, with the keys also within them.
The count, being then compelled to believe
that the lad had escaped through the case-
ments, next examined them; but such as
opened wide enough to admit the body of a
man were found to be carefully secured
either by iron bars, or by shutters, and no
vestige appeared of any person having at-
tempted to pass them ; neither was it pro-
bable that Ludovico would have incurred
the risk of breaking his neck, by leaping
from a window, when he might have walked
safely through a door.

The count's amazement did not admit of
words, but he returned once mere to exa-
mine the bed-room, where was no appear-
ance of disorder, except that occasioned by
the late overthrow of the chair, near which
had stood a small table ; and on this Ludo-
* vico's sword, his lamp, the book he had been
reading, and the remnant of his flask of
wine, still remained. At the foot of the
table, too, was the basket with some frag
ments of provision and wood.

Henri and the servant now uttered their
astonishment without reserve ; and though
the count said little, there was a seriousness
in his manner that expressed much. It ap-
peared that Ludovico must have quitted
these rooms by some concealed passage, for
the count could not believe that any super-
natural means had occasioned this event ;
yet, if there was any such passage, it seemed
inexplicable why he should retreat through
it, and it was equally surprising that not
even the smallest vestige should appear by
which his progress could be traced. In the
rooms every thing remained as much in
order as if he had just walked out by the
common way.

The count himself assisted in lifting the
arras with which the bed-chaiiiber, saloon,
and one of the anti-rooms, were hung, that
he might discover if any door had beencoa
cealed behind it ; but, after a laborious
search, none was found, and he at length

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHG.

275

quitted the apartments, having secured the
door of the last anti-chamber, the key of
which he took into his own possession. He
then gave orders that strict search should be
made for Ludovico, not only in the chateau,
but in the neighbourhood \ and, retiring
with Henri to his closet, they remained there
in conversation for a considerable time ;
and whatever was the subject of it, Henri
from this hour lost much of his vivacity, and
his manners were particularly grave and re-
served whenever the topic, which now agi-
tated the count's family with wonder and
alarm, was introduced,

Ou the disappearing of Ludovico, Baron
St. Foix seemed strengthened in all his for-
mer opinions concerning the probability of
apparitions, though it was difficult to dis-
cover what connection there could possibly
be between the two subjects, or to account
for this effect, otherwise than by supposing
that the mystery attending Ludovico, by
exciting awe and curiosity, reduced the mind
to a state of sensibility, which rendered it
more liable to the influence of superstition
in general. It is, however, certain, that from
this period the baron and his adherents be-
came more bigoted to their own systems
than before, while the terrors of the count's
servants increased to an excess that occa-
sioned many of them to quit the mansion
immediately, and the rest remained only till
others could be procured to supply their
places.

The most strenuous search after Ludovico
proved unsuccessful ; and after several days
of indefatigable enquiry, poor Annette gave
herself up to despair, and the other inhabi-
tants of the chateau to amazement.

Emily, whose mind had been deeply af-
fected by the disastrous fate of the late mar-
chioness, and with the mysterious connection
which she fancied had existed between her
and St. Aubert, was particularly impressed
by the late extraordinary event, and much
concerned for the loss of Ludovico, whose
integrity and faithful services claimed both
her esteem and gratitude. She was now
very desirous to return to the quiet retire-
ment of her convent ; but every hint of this
was received with real sorrow by the Lady
Blanche, and affectionately set aaide by the
count, for whom she felt much of the re-
spectful love and admiration of a daughter,
and to whom, by Dorotbee's consent, she
at length mentioned the appearance which
they had witnessed in the chamber of the
deceased marchioness. . At any other period
he would have smiled at such a relation, and
have believed that its object had existed
only in the distempered fancy of the relater $
but he now attended to Emily with serious-
ness ; and when she concluded, requested of
her a promise that this occurrence should
reat in silence. " Whatever may be the

cause and the import of these extraordinary
occurrences," added the count, " time only
can explain them. I shall keep a wary eye
upon all that passes in the chateau, and
shall pursue every possible means of disco-
vering the fate of Ludovico. Meanwhile,
we must be prudent and be silent. I will
myself watch in the north chambers, but of
tins we will say nothing till the night arrives
when I purpose doing so."

The count then sent for Dorothee, and
required of her also a promise of silence con-
cerning what she had already, or might in
future, witness of an extraordinary nature;
and this ancient servant now related to him
the particulars of the Marchioness de Vil
leroi's death, with some of which he ap-
peared to be already acquainted, while by
others he was evidently surprised and agi-
tated. After listening to this narrative, the
count retired to his closet, where he re-
mained alone for several hours ; and when
he again appeared, the solemnity of his
manner surprised and alarmed Emily, but
she gave no utterance to her thoughts.

On the week following the disappearance
of Ludovico, all the count's guests took leave
of him, except the baron, his son Mons. St.
Foix, and Emily ; the latter of whom was
soon after embarrassed and distressed by the
arrival of another visitor, Mons. Du Pont,
which made her determine upon withdraw-
ing to her convent immediately. The de-
light that appeared in his countenance when
he met her told that he brought back the
same ardour of passion which had formerly
banished him from Chateau-le-Blanc. He
was received with reserve by Emily, and
with pleasure by the count, who presented
him to her with a smile that seemed in
tended to plead his cause, and who did not
hope the less for his friend from the embar-
rassment she betrayed.

But M. Du Pont, with truer sympathy,
seemed to understand her manner, and his
countenance quickly lost its vivacity, and
sunk into the languor of despondency.

On the following day, however, he sought
an opportunity of declaring the purport of
his visit, and renewed his suit ; a declara-
tion which was received with real concern
by Emily, who endeavoured to lessen the
pain she might inflict by a second rejection,
with assurances of esteem and friendship ;
yet she left him in a state of mind tnat
claimed and excited her tenderest compas-
sion ; and being more sensible than ever of
the impropriety of remaining longer at the
chateau, she immediately sought the count,
and communicated to him her intention of
returning to the convent.

" My dear Emily," said he, " I observe,
with extreme concern, the illusion you are
encouraging— an illusion common to young
and sensible minds. Your heart has receiv

976

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

ed a severe shock; you believe you can
never entirely recover it ; and you will en-
courage this belief, till the habit of indulg-
ing sorrow will subdue the strength of your
mind, and discolour your future views with
melancholy regret. Let me dissipate this
illusion, and awaken you to a sense of your
danger."

Emily smiled mournfully. " I know what
you would say, my dear sir," said she,
** and am prepared to answer you. I feel
that my heart can never know a second
affection ; and that I must never hope even
to recover its tranquillity — if I sufftr my-
self to enter into a second engagement."

" I know that you feel all rthis," replied
the count ; " and I know also that time will
overcome these feelings, unless you cherish
them in solitude, and, pardon me, with
romantic tenderness Then, indeed, time
will only confirm habit. I am particularly
empowered to speak on this subject, and to
sympathize in your sufferings," added the
count, with an air of solemnity, ci for I have
known what it is to love, and to lament the
object of my love. Yes," continued he,
while his eyes tilled with tears, " 1 have
suffered ! — but those times have passed
away — long passed ! — and 1 can now look
back upon them without emotion."

" My dear sir," said Emily, timidly,
u what mean those tears ? — they speak, I
fear, another language — -they plead for me."

u They are weak tears, for they are useless
ones," replied the count, 'drying them. " I
would have you superior to such weakness.
These, however, are only faint traces of a
grief, which, if it had not been opposed by
long continued effort, might have led me to
the verge of madness ! Judge then, whether
I have not cause to warn you of an indul-
gence which may produce so terrible an
effect, and which must certainly, if not
opposed, overcloud the years that other-
wise might be happy. M. Du Pont is a
sensible and amiable man, who has long
been tenderly attached to you ; his family
and fortune are unexceptionable: — after
what I have said, it is unnecessary to add,
that I should rejoice in your felicity, and
that I think M. Du Pont would promote it.
Do not weep, Emily," continued the count,
taking her hand, u there if happiness
reserved for you."

He was silent a moment ; and then add-
ed, in a firmer voice, " I do not wish that
you should make a violent effort to over-
come your feeling ♦, all I at present ask is,
that you will check the thoughts that would
lead you to a remembrance of the past ;
that you will suffer your mind to be enga-
ged by present objects; that you will allow
yourself to believe it possible you may yet
be happy, and that you will sometimes
think with complacency of poor Du Pont,

and not condemn him to the stafr of despon
dency, from which, my dear Emily, I am
endeavouring to withdraw you."

" Ah ! my dear sir," said Emily, while
her tears still fell, " do not suffer the
benevolence of your wishes to mislead Mous.
Du Pont with an expectation that 1 can
ever accept his hand. If I understand my
own heart, this never can be ; your instruc-
tion I can obey in almost every other parti-
cular, than that of adopting a contrary
belief."

u Leave me to understand your heart,"
replied the count, with a faint smile. " If
you pay me the compliment to be guided
by my advice in other instances, I will par-
don your incredulity respecting your future
conduct towards Mons. Du Pont. I will
not even press you to remain longer at the
chateau than your own satisfaction will per-
mit ; but though 1 forbear to oppose your
present retirement, I shall urge the claims of
friendship for your future visits."

Tears of gratitude mingled with those of
tender regret, while Emily thanked the
couet for the many instances of friendship
hhe had received from him ; promised to be
directed by his advice upon every subject
but one, and assured him of the pleasure
with which she should, at some future
period, accept the invitation of the countess
and himself — if Mons. Du Pont was not at
the chateau.

The count smiled at this condition.
H Be it so," said he; "meanwhile the con-
vent is so near the chateau, that my daugh-
ter and I shall often visit you : and if, some-
times, we should dare to bring you another
visitor, — will you forgive us?"

Emily looked distressed, and remained
silent.

" Well," rejoined the count, " I will
pursue the subject no further, and must
now entreat your forgiveness for having
pressed it thus far. You will, however, do
me the justice to believe that I have been
urged only by a sincere regard for your
happiness; and that of my amiable friend,
Mons. Du Pont."

Emily, when she left the count, went to
mention her intended departure to the coun-
tess, who opposed it with polite expressions
of regret; after which, she sent a note to
acquaint the lady abbess that she should
return to the convent; and thither she with-
drew on the evening of the following day.
M. Du Pont, in extreme regret, saw her
depart, while the count endeavoured to
cheer him with a hope that Emily would
some time regard him with a more favour-
able eye.

She was pleased to find herself once more
in the tranquil retirement of the convent,
where she experienced a renewal of all the
maternal kindness of the abbess, and of the .

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

277

sisterly attentions of the nuns. A report of
the late extraordinary occurrence at the
chateau had already reached them, and after
supper, on the evening of her arrival, it was
the subject of conversation in the convent
parlour, where she was requested to men-
tion some particulars of that unaccountable
event. Emily was guarded in her conver-
sation on this subject, and briefly related
a few circumstances concerning Ludovico,
whose disappearance, her auditors almost
unanimously agreed, had been effected by
supernatural means.

" A belief had so long prevailed,1* said a
nun, who was called sister Frances, " that
the chateau was haunted, that I was sur-
prised when I heard the count had the teme-
rity to inhabit it. Its former possessor, I
fear, had some deed of conscience to atone
for : let us hope that the virtues of its pre-
sent owner would preserve him from the
punishment due to the errors of the last, if,
indeed, he was criminal "

" Of what crime then was he suspected ?"
said a Mademoiselle Feydeau, a boarder at
the convent.

" Let us pray for his soul !" said a nun,
who had till now sat in silent attention.
* If he was criminal, his punishment m this
world was sufficient."

There was a mixture of wildness and
solemnity in her manner of delivering this,
which struck Emily exceedingly $ but Made
moiselle repeated her question, without
noticing the solemn eagerness of the nun.

" I dare not presume to say what was
his crime," replied sister Frances j " but
1 have heard many reports of an extraor-
dinary nature respecting the late Marquis
de Villeroi, and, among others, that soou
after the death of his lady, he quitted Cha-
teau-le-Blanc, and never afterwards returned
to it. I was not here at the time, so I can
only mention it from report *, and so many
years have passed since the Marchioness
died, that few of our sisterhood, 1 believe,
can do more."

" But I can," said the nun, who had be-
fore spoken, and whom they called sister
Agnes.

" You then," said Mademoiselle Feydeau,
"are possibly acquainted with circum-
stances that enable you to judge whether
he was criminal or not, and what was the
crime imputed to h\m."

" I am," replied the nun ; "but who shall
dare to scrutinize my thoughts — who shall
dare to pluck out my opinion ? God only
is his judge, and to that judge he is gone."

Emily looked with surprise at sister
Frances, who returned her a significant
glance.

" 1 only requested your opinion," said
Mademoiselle Feydeau, mildly ; " if the
tttbject is displeasing fro you, I will drop it."

" Displeasing !" said the nun, with em
phasis : — " We are idle talkers ; we do nor
weigh the meaning of the words we use
displeasing is a poor word. I will go pray.*
As she said this, she rose from her seat
and with a profound sigh quitted the room.

"What can be the meaning of this?*
said Emily, when she was gone.

" It is nothing extraordinary/' replied
sister Frances, " she is often thus ; but she
has no meaning in what she says. Her intel-
lects are at times deranged. Did you never
see her thus before ?"

" Never," said Emily. " I have, indeed,
sometimes thought that there was the melan-
choly of madness in her look, but never
before perceived it in her speech. Poor
soul, I will pray for her !"

" Your prayers then, my daughter, will
unite with our's," observed the lady abbess :
" she has need of them."

"Dear lady," said Mademoiselle Feydeau,
addressing the abbess, " what is your opi-
nion of the late marquis ? the strange cir-
cumstances that have occurred at the chateau
have so much awakened my curiosity, that
I shall be pardoned the question. What
was his imputed crime, and what the punish
ment to which sister Agnes alluded ?"

" We must be cautious of advancing our
opinion," said the abbess, with an air of
reserve, mingled with solemnity — " we must
he cautious of advancing our opinion on *>o
delicate a subject. I will not take upon me to
pronounce that the late marquis was criminal,
or to say what was the crime of which he
was suspected 5 but, concerning the punish,
ment our daughter Agnes hinted, I know 0/
none he suffered. She probably alluded to the
severe one which an exasperated conscience
can inflict. Beware, my children, of incur-
ring so terrible a punishment — it is the pur-
gatory of this life ! The late marchioness I
knew well -, she was a pattern to such as live
iu the world ; nay, our sacred order need
not have blushed to copy htr virtues ! Our
holy convent received her mortal part 5 her
heavenly spirit, I doubt not, ascended to its
sanctuary!"

As the abbess spoke this, the last bell of
vespers struck up, and she rose. " Let us
go, my children," said she, " and intercede
for the wretched ; let us go and confess our
sins, and endeavour to purify our souls for
the heaven to which she is gone !"

Emily was affected by the solemnity of
this exhortation, and remembering her father,
" The heaven to which he too, is gone !" said
she, faintly, as she suppressed her sighs, and
followed the abbess and the nuns to tii
chapel.

37 »

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

CHAP. XJLVI.

JB« thau a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd,

Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts horn hell.

Be thy intents wicked, or charitable ]

,1 will speak to thee.:\

HAMLET.

Count De Villefort at length received
a letter from the advocate at Avignon, en-
couraging Emily to assert her claim to the
estates of the late Madame Montoni ; and
about the same time a messenger arrived
from Monsieur Quesnel, with intelligence
that made an appeal to the law on this sub-
ject unnecessary, since it appeared that the
only person who could have opposed her claim
was now no more. A friend of M. Quesnel,
who resided atVenice,had sent him an account
of the death of Montoni, who had been brought
to trial with Orsino, as his supposed accom-
plice in the murder of the Venetian noble-
man. Orsino was found guilty, condemned,
and executed upon the wheel j but nothing
being discovered to criminate Montoni
and his colleagues on this charge, they were
all released, except Montoni, who, being
considered by the senate as a very dangerous
person, was, for other reasons, ordered again
mto confinement, where it was said he had
died in a doubtful and mysterious manner,
and not without suspicion of having been
poisoned. The authority from which M Ques-
nel had received this information would not
a How him to doubt its truth $ and he told Emily,
that she had now only to lay claim to the
estates of her late aunt, to secure them ; and
added, that he would himself assist in the
necessary forms of this business. The term
for which La Vallee had been let being now
also nearly expired, he acquainted her with
the circumstance, and advised her to take the
road thither through Thoulouse, where he
promised to meet her, and where it would be
proper for her to take possession of the estates
of the late Madame Montoni ; adding, that
he would spare her any difficulties that might
occur on that occasion from the want of
knowledge on the subject, and that he be-
lieved it would be necessary for her to be at
Thoulouse in about three weeks from the
present time.

An increase of fortune seemed to have
awakened this sudden kindness in M. Ques-
nel towards his niece , and it appeared that
he entertained more respect for the rich
heiress, than he had ever felt compassion for
the poor and unfriended orphan.

The pleasure with which she received this
intelligence was clouded, when she consider-
ed, that he, for whose sake she had once re-
gretted the want of fortune, was no longer
worthy of sharing it with her j but, remem-
bering the friendly admonition of the count,
she checked this melancholy reflection, and
endeavoured to feel only gratitude for the
unexpected good that now attended her j

while it formed no Inconsiderable part of fyef
satisfaction to know that La Vallee, her
native home, which was endeared to her by
its haying been the residence of her parents,
would soon be restored to her possession.
There she meant to fix her future residence,
for though it could not be compared with
the chateau at Thoulouse, either for extent
or magnificence, its pleasant scenes, and the
tender remembrances that haunted them,
had claims upon her heart, which she was not
inclined to sacrifice to ostentation. She
wrote immediately to thank !V1. Quesnel for
the active interest he took in her concerns,
and to say that she would meet him at Thou-
louse at the appointed time.

When Count de Villefort, with Blanche,
came to the convent to give Emily the advice
of the advocate, he was informed of the con-
tents of M. Quesnel's letter, and gave her
his sincere congratulations on the occasion ;
but she observed, that when the first expres-
sion of satisfaction had faded from his coun-
tenance, an unusual gravity succeeded, and
she scarcely hesitated to enquire its cause.

" It has no new occasion," replied the
count , " 1 am harassed and perplexed by
the confusion into which my family is thrown
by their fbolish superstition. Idle reports
are floating round me, which I can neither
admit to be true, or prove to be false j and
I am also very anxious about the poor fellow,
Ludovico, concerning whom I have not been
able to obtain information. Every part of
the chateau, and every part of the neighbour-
hood too, has, I believe, been searched, and
I know not what further can be done, since
I have already offered large rewards for the
discovery of him. The keys of the north
apartment I have not suffered to be out of
my possession since he disappeared, and I
mean to watch in those chambers myself this
very night."

Emily, seriously alarmed for the count,
united her entreaties with those of the Lady
Blanche, to dissuade him from his purpose.
" What should I fear ?" said he. « I have
no faith in supernatural combats ; and for
human opposition I shall be prepared ; nay,
I will even promise not to watch alone."

" But who, dear sir, will have courage
enough to watch with you ?" said Emily.

" My son," replied the count. " If 1 am
not carried off in the night," added he, smil-
ing, " you shall hear tjje result of my adven-
ture to-morrow."

The Count and Lady Blanche shortly af-
terwards took leave of Emily, and returned
to the chateau, where he informed Henri of
his intention, who, not without some secret
reluctance, consented to be the partner of
his watch , and wnen the design was men-
tioned after supper, the countess was terri-
fied, and the Baron and M, Du Pont
joined with her in entreating that he would

THli MYSTERIES Of UIX>IJ»HO.

£7$

nol tempt his fate as Ludorieo had done.
" We know not," added the baron, " the
nature or the power of an evil spirit 3 and
that such a spirit haunts those chambers can
now, I think, scarcely be doubted. Beware,
my lord, how you provoke its vengeance,
since it has already given us a terrible exam-
ple of its malice. I allow it may be proba-
ble that the spirits of the dead are permitted
to return to the earth only on occasions of
high import ; but the present import may
be your destruction."

The count could not forbear smiling •
" Do you think then, baron, " said he, " that
my destruction is of sufficient importance to
draw back to earth the soul of the departed ?
Alas ! my good friend, there is no occasion
for such means to accomplish the destruc-
tion of any individual. Wherever the mys-
tery rests, [ trust I shall this night be able
to detect it. You know J am not supersti-
tious."

" I know that you are incredulous," inter,
rupted the baron.

" Well, call it what you will ; I meant to
say, that though you know I am free from
superstition— if any thing supernatural has
appeared, I doubt not it will appear to me j
and if any strange event hangs over my
house, or if any extraordinary transaction
has formerly been connected with it, 1 shall
probably be made acquainted with it. At
all events I will invite discovery -, and, that
I may be equal to a mortal attack, which, in
good truth, my friend, is what I most ex-
pect, I shall take care to be well armed."

The count took leave of his family for
the night with an assumed gaiety, which but
ill concealed the anxiety that depressed his
spirits, and retired to the north apartments,
accompanied by his son, and followed by the
baron, M. Da Pont, and some of the domes-
tics, who all bade him good night at the
outer door. In these chambers every thing
appeared as when he had last been here 5
even in the bed-room no alteration was visi-
ble, where he lighted his own fire, for none of
the domestics could be prevailed upon to
venture thither. After carefully examining
the chamber and the oriel, the count and
Henri drew their chairs upon the hearth, set
a bottle of wine and a lamp before them,
laid their swords upon the table, and stirring
the wood into a blaze, began to converse on
indifferent topics. But Henri was often silent
and abstracted, and sometimes threw a
glance of mingled awe and curiosity round
the gloomy apartment ; while the count
gradually ceased to converse, and sat either
lost in thought, or reading a volume of
Tacitus, which he had brought to beguile
the tediousness of the night.

CHAP. XLVIl.

" Give thy thoughts no tongue."

SHAKSPEARB.

The Baron St. Foix, whom anxiety for
his friend had kept awake, rose early to en-
quire the event of the night, when, as he
passed the count's closet, hearing steps with-
in, he knocked at the door, and it was open-
ed by his friend himself. Rejoicing to see
him in safety, and curious to learn the occur-
rences of the night, he had not immediately
leisure to observe the unusual gravity that
overspread thefeaturesof the count, whose re-
served answers first occasioned him to notice
it. The count, then smiling, endeavoured
to treat the subject of his curiosity with le-
vity ; but the baron was serious, and pur-
sued his enquiries so closely, that the count,
at length, resuming his gravity, said, " Well,
my friend, press the subject no further, 1
entreat you -y and let me request, also, that
you will hereafter be silent upon any thing
you may think extraordinary in my future
conduct. I do not scruple to tell you that
I am unhappy, and that the watch of the
last night has not assisted me to discover
Ludovicoj upon every occurrence of the
night you must excuse my reserve."

"But where is Henri?" said the baron,
with surprise ^and disappointment at this
denial.

" He is well in his own apartment," re-
plied the count. " You will not question
him on this topic, my friend, since you know
my wish."

" Certainly not," said the baron, some-
what chagrined, " since it would be dis-
pleasing to you 5 but methinks, my friend,
you might rely on my discretion, and drop
this unusual reserve. However, you mu*t
allow me to suspect that you have seen rea-
son to become a convert to my system, and
are no longer the incredulous knight you
lately appeared to be."

" Let us talk no more upon this subject,"
said the count 5 " you may be assured that
no ordinary circumstance has imposed this
silence upon me, towards a friend whom I
have called so for near thirty years 3 and my
present reserve cannot make you question
either my esteem, or the sincerity of my
friendship."

" I will not doubt either," said the baron,
" though you must allow me to express my
surprise at this silence."

" To me I will allow it," replied the count ;
w but I earnestly entreat that you will for
bear to notice it to my family, as well a*
every thing remarkable you may observe in
my conduct towards them."

The baron readily promised this, and af
ter conversing for some time on general u>-
pic«, they descended to the breakfast -room,

sso

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLFHO.

where the count met his family with a cheer-
ful countenance, and evaded their enquiries
by employing light ridicule, and assuming
an air of uncommon gaiety, while he assured
them that they need not apprehend any
thing from the north chambers, since Henri
and himself had been permitted to return
from them in safety.

Henri, however, was less successful in
disguising his feelings. From his counte-
nance an expression of4error was not entire-
ly faded j he was often silent and thought-
ful 5 and when he attempted to laugh at the
eager enquiries of Mademoiselle Beam, it
was evidently only an attempt.

In the evening, the count called, as he had
promised, at the convent, and Emily was
surprised to perceive a mixture uf playful
ridicule and of reserve in his mention of the
north apartment. Of what had occurred
there, however, he said nothing, and when
she ventured to remind him of his promise
to tell her the result of his enquiries, and
to ask if he had received any proof that
those chambers were haunted, his look be-
came solemn for a moment ; then, seeming
to recollect himself, he smiled, and said,
" My deai- Emily, do not suffer my lady
abbess to infect your good understanding
with these fancies : she will teach you to ex-
pect a ghost in every dark room. But be-
lieve me," added he, with a profound sigb9
" the apparition of the dead comes not
on light or sportive errands, to terrify or to
surprise the timid." He paused, and fell
into a momentary thought fulness, and then
added, " We will say no more on this sub-
ject."

Soon after he took leave, an<j, when
Emily joined some of the nuns, she was sur-
prised to find them acquainted with a cir-
cumstance which she had carefully avoided
to mention ; and expressing their admira-
tion of his intrepidity in having dared to
pass a night in the apartment whence Lu-
dovico had disappeared ; for she had not
considered with what rapidity a tale of won-
der circulates. The nuns had acquired their
information from peasants who brought
fruit to the monastery, and whose whole
attention had been fixed, since the disap-
pearance of Ludovico, on what was passing
in the castle.

Emily listened in silence to the various
opinions of the nuns concerning the conduct
of the count, most of whom condemned it
as rash and presumptious, affirming, that it
was provoking the vengeance of an evil spi-
rit, thus to intrude upon its haunts.

Sister Frances contended, that the count
had acted with the bravery of a virtuous
mind. He knew himself guiltless of aught
that should provoke a good spirit, and did
not fear the spells of an evil one, since he

could claim the protection of a higher
power, of Him who can command the
wicked, and will protect the innocent.

" The guilty cannot claim that protec-
tion !" said sister Agnes. " Let the count
look to bis conduct, that he do not forfeit
his claim ! Yet who is he that shall dare to
call himself innocent ! — all earthly innocence
is but comparative. Yet still how wide
asunder are the extremes of guilt, and to
what an horrible depth may we fall ! Oh !

The nun, as she concluded, uttered a
shuddering sigh, that startled Emily, who,
looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes
fixed on her's ; after which the sister rose,
took her hand, gazed earnestly upon her
countenance for some moments in silence,
and then said—

" You are young— you are innocent ! I
mean you are yet innocent of any great
crime!— But you have passions in your
heart, — scorpions : they sleep now — beware
how you awaken them !— they will sting you
even unto death !"

Emily, affected by these words, and by
the solemnity with which they were deli-
vered, could not suppress her tears.

" Ah ! is it so, exclaimed Agnes, her
countenance softening from its sternness ;
" so young, and so unfortunate ! We are
sisters, then, indeed. Yet there is no bond
of kindness among the guilty," she added,
while her eyes resumed their wild expres-
sion, " no gentleness — no peace, no hope !
I knew them all once— my eyes could weep
— but now they burn ; for now my soul is
fixed and fearless ! — I lament no more !"

" Rather let us repent and pray," said
another nun. " We are taught to hope that
prayer and penitence will work ©ur salva-
tion. There is hope for all who repent !"

" Who repent and turn to the true faith,"
observed sister Frances.

(i For all but me !" replied Agnes so-
lemnly, who paused, and then abruptly ad-
ded, " My head burns ; 1 believe I am not
well.* O ! could I strike from my memory
all former scenes — the figures that rise up
like furies to torment me ! — I see them when
I sleep, and when I am awake : they are
still before my eyes i I see them now—'
now !"

She stood in a fixed attitude of horror,
her straining eyes moving slowly round the
room, as if they followed something. One
of the nuns gently took her hand, to lead
her from the parlour. Agnes became calm,
drew her other hand across her eyes, looked
again, and sighing deeply, said, " They are
gone — they are gone ! I am feverish, I know
not what I say. I am thus sometimes, but
it will go off again; 1 shall soon be better
— Was not that the vesper-bell ?"

1 UK MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHtf.

?^l

w No," replied Fiances, " the evening
Service is passed. Let Margaret lead you to
your cell."

" You are right," replied sister Agnes* " I
shall be better there. Good night, ray sis-
ters ; remember me in your orisons."

VThcn they had withdrawn, Frances, ob-
serving Emily's emotions, said, M Do not be
alarmed, our sister is often thus deranged,
though I have not lately seen her so frantic;
her usual mood is melancholy. This fit has
been coming on for several days; seclusion,
and the customary treatment, will restore
her."

" But how rationally she conversed at
first!" observed Emily; "her ideas followed
each other in perfect order."

s 'Yes," replied the nun, " this is nothing
new : nay, I have sometimes known her
argue not only with method but with acute-
ness, and then, in a moment, start off into
madness.".

" Her conscience seems afflicted," said
Emily ; " did you ever hear what circum-
stance reduced her to this deplorable condi-
tion ?"

" I have," replied the nun, who said no
more till Emily repeated the question ;
when she added in a low voice, and looking
significantly towards the other boarders, " I
cannot tell you now, but if you think it worth
your while, come to my cell to-night, when
our sisterhood are at rest, and you shall hear
more; but remember we rise to midnight
prayers, and come either before or after
in id night."

Emily promised to remember, and, the
abbess soon after appearing, they spoke no
more of the unhappy nun.

The count, meanwhile, on his return home,
hud found M. Du Pont in one of those fits of
despondency which his attachment to Emily
frequently occasioned him, an attachment
tuaj had subsisted too long to be easily sub-
dued, and which had already outlived the
opposition of his friends. M Du Pont had
first seen Emily in Gascony, during the life-
time of his parent, who, on discovering his
hou's partiality for Mademoiselle St. Aubert,
his inferior in point of fortuue, forbade him
to declare it to her family, or to think of her
more. During the life of his father he had
observed the first command, but had found
it impracticable to obey the second, and
had sometimes soothed his passion by visiting
her favourite haunts, among which was the
fishing-house, where, once or twice, he ad-
dressed her in verse, concealing his name in
obedience to the promise he hand given his
father. There too he played the pathetic
air to which she had listened with such sur-
prise and admiration; and there he found
the miniature that had since cherished a
passion fata! ti his repose. During thisex-
y tdition iutv * ialy, his father di« \ 3 but he

received his liberty at a moment when he
was the least enabled to profit by it, since
the object that rendered it most valuable
was no longer within the reach of his vows.
By what accident he discovered Emily, and
assisted to release her from a terrible impri-
sonment, has already appeared, and also the
unavailing hope with which he then encou-
raged his love, and the fruitless efforts that
he had since made to overcome it.

The count still endeavoured, with friendly
zeal, to soothe him with a belief, that pa-
tience, perseverance, and prudence, would
finally obtain for him happiness and Emily :
" Time," said he, u will wear away the me
lancholy impression which disappointment
has left on her mind, and she will be sensi-
ble of your merit. Your services have al-
ready awakened her gratitude, and your suf-
ferings her pity ; and trust me, my friend,
in a heart so sensible as her's, gratitude and
pity lead to love. When her imagination is
rescued from its present delusion, she will
readily accept the homage of a mind like
your's."

Du Pont sighed while he listened to these
words ; and, endeavouring to hope what his
friend believed, he willingly yielded to an in-
vitation to prolong his visit at the chateau,
which we now leave for the monastery of
St. Claire.

When the nuns had retired to rest, Emily
stole to her appointment with sister Frances,
whom she found in her cell, engaged iu
prayer, before a little table, where appeared
the image she was addressing, and, above,
the dim lamp that gave light to the place.
Turning her eyes, as the door opened, she
beckoned to Emily to come in, who, having
done so, seated herself in silence beside the
nun's little mattress of straw, till her orisons
should conclude. The latter soon rose from
her knees, and, taking down the lamp and
placing it ou the table, Emily perceived
there a human skull and bones lying beside
an hour-glass; but the nun, without ob-
serving her emotion, sat down on the mat-
tress by her, saying, " Your curiosity, sister,
has made you punctual, but you have no-
thing remarkable to hear in the history of
poor Agnes, of whom I avoided to speak in
the presence of my lay-sisters, only be-
cause I would not publish her crime to
them."

" I shall consider your confidence in mt as
a favour," said Emily, " and will not mis-
use it."

u Sister Agnes," resumed the nun> " is of
a noble family, as the dignity of her air
must already have informed you, but I will
not dishonour their name so much as to re-
veal it. Love was the occasion of her crime
and of her madness. She was beloved by a
gentleman of inferior fortune, and her father,
as 1 have heard, bestowing her on a noble-

282

THE MYSTERIES OP LBOLFHO.

man, whom she disliked, an ill-governed
passion proved her destruction. Every ob-
ligation of virtue and of duty was forgotten,
and she prophaned her marriage vows j but
her guilt was soon detected, and she would
have fallen a sacrifice to the vengeance of
her husband, had not her father contrived to
convey her from his power. By what
means he did this I never could learn ; but
he secreted her in this convent, where he
afterwards prevailed with her to take the
veil, while a report was circulated in the
world that she was dead, and the father, to
save his daughter, assisted the rumour, and
employed such means as induced her hus-
band to believe she had become a victim to
bis jealousy. You look surprised,1' added
the nun, observing Emily's countenance ;
" I allow the story is uncommon, but not, I
believe, without a parallel."

" Pray proceed," said Emily, " I am in-
terested."

" The story is already told," resumed the
whl; I have only to mention, that the long
struggle which Agnes suffered between love,
remorse, and a sense of the duties she had
taken upon herself in becoming of our order,
at length unsettled her reason. At first she
was frantic and melancholy by quick alter-
natives 5 then she sunk into a deep and set-
tled melancholy, which still, however, has at
times been interrupted by fits of wildness,
and of late these have again been frequent."
Emily was affected by the history of the
sister, some parts of whose story brought
to her remembrance that of the Marchioness
de Villeroi, who had also been compelled by
her father to forsake the object of her affec-
tions, for a nobleman of his choice ; but,
from what Dorothee had related, there ap-
peased no reason to suppose that she had
escaped the vengeance of a jealous husband,
or to doubt for a moment the innocence of
her conduct. But Emily, while she sighed
over the misery of the nun, could not forbear
shedding a few tears to the misfortunes of the
marchioness 5 aud, when she returned to the
mention of sister Agnes, she asked Frances
if she remembered her in her youth, and
whether she was then beautiful.

" I was not here at the time when she
took the vows," replied Frances, " which is
so long ago, that few of the present sister-
hood, I believe, were witnesses of the cere-
mony •, nay, even our lady mother did not
then preside over the convent : but I can
remember when sister Agnes was a very
beautiful woman. She retains that air of
high rank which always distinguished her,
but her beauty, you must perceive, is fled ;
I can scarcely discover evei. a vestige of the
loveliness that once animated her features."
" It is strange," said Emily, " but there
are moments when her countenance has ap-
peared familiar to my memory ! You will

think me fanciful, and 1 think myself so, fm
I certainly never saw sister Agnes before I
came to this convent, and I must therefore
have seen some person. whom she strongly
resembles, though of this 1 have no recolleo
tion."

" You have been interested by the deep
melancholy of her countenance," said Fraif^
ces, " and its impression has probably de-
luded your imagination ; for 1 might as rea-
sonably think I perceive a likeness between
you and Agnes, as you, that you have seen
her any where but in this convent, since this
has been her place of refuge for nearly as
many years as make your age."
" Indeed !" said Emily.
" Yes," rejoined Frances, " and why does
that circumstance excite your surprise?"

Emily did not appear to notice this ques-
tion, but remained thoughtful for a few mo-
ments, and then said, " It was about that
same period that the Marchioness de Ville-
roi expired."

u That is an odd remark," said Frances.
Emily, recalled from her reverie, smiled,
and gave the conversation another turn,
but it soon came back to the subject 01
the unhappy nun, and Emily remained in
the cell of sister Frances, till the midnight
bell aroused her; when, apologizing for
having interrupted the sister's repose till this
late hour, they quitted the cell together.
Emily returned to her chamber, and the
nun bearing a glimmering taper, went to
her devotion in the chapel.

Several days followed, during which Emily
saw neither the count, or any of his family;
and when at length he appeared, she re-
marked, with concern, that his air was un-
usually disturbed.

" My spirits are harassed," said he, in an-
swer to her anxious enquiries, " and I mean
to change my residence for a little while, an
experiment which I hope will restore my
mind to its usual tranquillity. My daughter
and myself will accompany the Baron St.
Foix to his chateau. It lies in a valley of
the Pyrenees, that opens towards Gascony,
and I have been thinking, Emily, that when
you set out for La Vallee, we may go part
of the way together j it would be a satis-
faction to me to guard you towards your
home."

She thanked the count for his friendly con-
sideration, and lamented that the necessity
for her going first to Thoulouse would render
this plan impracticable. " But when you
are at the baron's residence," she added,
" you will be only a short journey from La
Vallee, and I think, sir, you will not leave
the country without visiting me 5 it is un-
necessary to say with what pleasure I
should receive you and the Lady Blanche."
" I do not doubt it," replied the count,
<<aiid 1 will not deny myself and Blanche

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

26,1

the pleasure of visiting yoiu if your affairs
should allow you to be at La Vallee about
the time when we can meet you there "

When Emily said that she should hope to
see the countess also, she was not sorry to
learn that this lady was going, accompa-
nied by Mademoiselle Beam, to pay a visit
for a few weeks to a family in Lower Lan-
guedoc.

The count, after some further conversa-
tion on this intended journey, and on the
arrangement of Emily's, took leave.; and
many days did not succeed this visit, before
a second letter from M. Quesnel informed
her that he was then at Thoulouse, that La
Vallee was at liberty, and that he wished
her to' set off for the former place, where
he awaited her arrival, with all possible dis-
patch, since his own affairs pressed him
to return to Gascony. Emily did not hesi-
tate to obey him ; and having taken an
affecting leave of the count's family, in
which M. Du Pont was still included, and
of her friends at the convent, she set out for
Thoulouse, attended by the unhappy Annette,
and guarded by a steady servant of the
count.

CHAP. XLV1II.

"Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain.
Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain:
Awake but one, and lo ! what myriads rise!
Each stamps its image as the other flies !"

PLEASURES OF MEMORY.

Emily pursued her journey, without auy
accident, along the plains of Languedoc
towards the north-west 5 and, on this her re-
turn to Thoulouse, which she had last left
with Madame Montoni, she thought much
on the melancholy fate of her aunt, who,
but for her own imprudence, might now have
been living in happiness there ! Montoni,
too, often rose to her fancy, such as she had
seen him in his days of triumph, bold, spi-
rited, and commanding ; such also as she had
since beheld him in his days of vengeance ;
and now, only a few short months had passed
—and he had no longer the power or the
will to afflict j— he had become a clod of
earth, and his life was vanished like a
shadow ! Emily could have wept at his fate,
had she not remembered his crimes ; for that
of her unfortunate aunt she did weep ; and
all sense of her errors was overcome by the
recollection of her misfortunes.

Other thoughts and other emotions suc-
ceeded, as Emily drew near the well-known
scenes of her early love, and considered that
Valancourt was lost to her and to himself for
ever. At length she came to the brow of
the hill, whence, on her departure for
Italy, she had given a farewell look to this
beloved landscape, amongst whose woods
and fields she had so often walked with
Valancourt, and where he was then to in-

habit, when she would be far, far away !
She saw, once more, that chain of the
Pyrenees which overlooked La Vallee, rising
like faint clouds on the horizon. " There,
too, is Gascony extended at their feet!"
said she, " O my father — my mother ! And
there too, is the Garonne !" she added, dry-
ing the tears that obscured her sight — "and
Thoulouse, and my aunt's mansion — and
the groves in her garden ! — O my friends !
are ye all lost to me — must I never, never
see ye more !" Tears rushed again to her
eyes, and she continued to weep, till an
abrupt turn in the road had nearly occa-
sioned the carriage to overset, when, looking
up, she perceived another part of the well-
known scene around Thoulouse ; and all the
reflections and anticipations which she had
suffered at the moment when she bade it
last adieu, came with recollected force to
her heart. She remembered how anxiously
she had looked forward into futurity, which
was to decide her happiness concerning
Valancourt, and what depressing fears had
assailed her ; the very words she had uttered
as she withdrew her last look from the
prospect, came to her memory. " Could I
but be certain," she had then said, " that I
should ever return, and that Valancourt
would still live for me — I should go in
peace!"

Now, that futurity so anxiously antici-
pated was arrived, she was returned — but
what a dreary blank appeared ! — Valancourt
no longer lived for her ! She had no longer
even the melancholy satisfaction of con-
templating his image in her heart, for he
was no longer the same Valancourt she had
cherished there — the solace of many a
mournful hour, the animating friend that
had enabled her to bear up against the
oppression of Montoni — the distant hope
that had beamed over her gloomy prospect !
On perceiving this beloved idea to be an
illusion of her own creation, Valancourt
seemed to be annihilated, and her soul
sickened at the blank that remained. His
marriage with a rival, even his death, she
thought she could have endured with more
fortitude than this discovery 5 for then,
amidst all her grief, she could have looked
in secret upon the image of goodness which
her fancy had drawn of him, and comfort
would have mingled with her suffering !

Drying her tears, she looked once more
upon the landscape which had excited them,
and perceived that she was passing the very
bank where she had taken leave of Valan-
court on the morning of her departure from
Thoulouse, and she now saw him throng1.!
her returning tears, such as he had appeared
when she looked from the carriage to give
him a last adieu— saw him leaning mourn-
fully agunst the high trees, and remem-
bered the fixed look of mingled tenderness

284

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

and anguish with which he had then re-
garded her. This recollection was too much
for her heart, and she sunk back in the
carriage, nor once looked up till it stopped
at the gates of what was now her own man-
sion.

These being opened, and by the servant to
whose care the chateau had been entrusted,
the carriage drove into the court, where
alighting, she hastily passed through the
great hall, now silent and solitary, to a large
oak parlour, the common sitting-room of the
late Madame Montoni, where, instead of
being received by M. Quesnel, she found a
letter from him, informing her that business
of consequence had obliged him to leave
Thoulouse two days before. Emily was,
upon the whole, not sorry to be spared his
presence, since his abrupt departure ap-
peared to indicate the same indifference with
which he had formerly regarded her. This
letter informed her, also, of the progress he
had made in the settlement of her affairs ;
and concluded with directions concerning
the forms of some business which remained
for her to transact. But M. Quesnel's un-
kindness did not long occupy her thoughts,
which returned to the remembrance of the
peisons she had been accustomed to see in
this mansion, and chiefly of the ill-guided
and unfortunate Madame Montoni. In the
room where she now sat, she had break-
fasted with her on the morning of their de-
parture for Italy; and the view of it
brought most forcibly to her recollection all
she had herself suffered at that time, and the
many gay expectations which her aunt had
formed respecting the journey before her.
While Emily's mind was thus engaged, her
eyes wandered unconsciously to a large
window that looked upon the garden, and
here new memorials of the past spoke to.her
heart*, for she saw extended before her the
very avenue in which she had parted with
Valancourt on the eve of her journey ; and
all the anxiety, the tender interest he had
shewn concerning her future happiness, his
earnest remonstrances against her commit-
ting herself to the power of Montoni, and the
truth of his affection, came afresh to her
memory. At this moment it appeared al-
most impossible that Valancourt could have
become unworthy of her regard ; and she
doubted all that she had lately heard to his
disadvantage, and even his own words,
which had confirmed Count de Villefort's
report of him. Overcome by the reflections
which the view of this avenue occasioned,
she turned abruptly from the window, and
sunk into a chair beside it, where she sat,
given up to grief, till the entrance of An-
nette, with coffee, aroused her.

" Dear madam, how melancholy this place
looks now," said Annette, " to what it used
to do ! It is dismal coining home, when there
is nobody to welcome one i"

This was not the moment in which Emily
could bear the remark ; her tears fell again,
and, as soon as she had taken the coffee, she
retired to her apartment, where she endea-
voured to repose her fatigued spirits. But
busy memory would still supply her with
the visions of former times ; she saw Valan-
court interesting and benevolent, as he had
been wont to appear in the days of their early
love, and amidst the scenes where she had
believed that they should sometimes pass
their years together ! — but at length sleep
closed these afflicting scenes from her view.

On the following morning, serious occu-
pation recovered her from such melancholy
reflections •, for being desirous of quitting
Thoulouse, and of hastening on to La Vallee,
she made some enquiries into the condition
of the estate, and immediately dispatched
a part of the necessary business concerning
it, according to the directions of Mons Ques-
nel. It required a strong effort to abstract
her thoughts from other interests sufficiently
to attend to this *, but she was rewarded for
her exertions by again experiencing, that
employment is the surest antidote to sorrow.

This day was devoted entirely to business^
and, among other concerns, she employed
means to learn the situation of all her poor
tenants, that she might relieve their wants,
or confirm their comforts.

In the evening, her spirits were so much
strengthened, that she thought she could bear
to visit the gardens where she had so often
walked with Valancourt •, and knowing, that
if she delayed to do so, their scenes would
only affect her the more whenever they
should be viewed, she took advantage of the
present state of her mind, and entered them.

Passing hastily the gate leading from the
court into the gardens, she hurried up the
great avenue, scarcely permitting her memo-
ry to dwell for a moment on the circumstance
of her having here parted with Valancourt,
and soon quitted this for other walks less in-
teresting to her heart. These brought her
at length Jo the flight of steps that led from
the lower garden to the terrace, on seeing
which, she became agitated, and hesitated
whether to ascend, but, her resolution re-
turning, she proceeded.
. u Ah !" said Emily, as she ascended, " these
are the same high trees that used to wave
over the terrace, and these the same flowery
thickets — the liburnum, che wild rose, and
the cerinthe — which were wont to grow be-
neath them ! Ah ? and there too, on that bank
are the very plants which Valancourt so
carefully reared ! — O when last I saw them !"
— She checked the thought, but could not
restrain her tears; and after walking slowly
on for a few moments, her agitation upon the
view of this well-known scene increased so
much, that she was obliged to stop, and lean
upon the wall of the terrace. It was a mild
and beautiful evening. The sun was settiug

over the extensive landscape, to which his
beams, sloping from beneath a dark cloud
that overhung the west, gave rich and partial
colouring, and touched the tufted summits of
the groves, that rose from the garden below
with a yellow gleam. Emily and Valan-
court had often admired together this scene
at the same hour ; and it was exactly on this
spot that, on the night preceding her depar-
ture for Italy, she had listened to his remon-
strances against the journey, and to the
pleadings of passionate affection. Some
observations which she made on the land-
scape brought this to her remembrance, and
with it all the minute particulars of that
conversation ; the alarming doubts he had
expressed concerning Montoni, doubts which
had since been fatally confirmed; the reasons
and entreaties he had employed to prevail
with her to consent to an immediate marri-
age ; the tenderness of his love, the parox-
ysms of his grief, and the conviction he had
repeatedly expressed, that they should never
meet again in happiness ! All these circum-
stances rose afresh to her mind, and awaken-
ed the various emotions she had then suffer-
ed. Her tenderness for Valancourt became
as powerful as in the moments when she
thought that she was parting with him and
happiness together, and when the strength of
her mind had enabled her to triumph over
present suffering, rather than to deserve the
reproach of her conscience by engaging in a
clandestine marriage. — " Alas !" said Emily,
as these recollections came to her mind, "and
what have I gained by the fortitude I then
practised ?— am I happy now ? — He said we
should meet no more in happiness $ but, O !

he little thought his own misconduct would
separate us, and lead to the very evil he then
dreaded !"

Her reflections increased her anguish,
while she was compelled to acknowledge that
the fortitude she had formerly exerted, if it
had not conducted her to happiness, had
saved her from irretrievable misfortune, from
Valancourt himself! But in these moments
she could not congratulate herself on the
prudence that had saved her; she could only
lament, with bitterest anguish, the circum
stances which had conspired to betray Valan-
court into a course of life so different from
that which the virtues, the taste, and the
pursuits of his early years, had promised ; bu :
she still loved him too well to believe that
his heart was even now depraved, though his
conduct had been criminal. An observation
which had fallen from M. St. Aubert more
than once, now occurred to her. "This
young man,'* said he, speaking of Valan-
court, u has never been at Paris;" a remark
that had surprised her at the time it was
uttered, but which she now understood ; and
she exclaimed, sorrowfully, " O Valancourt !
if such a friend as my father had been with
you at Paris — your noble, ingenuous nature,
would not have fallen !*?

The sun was now set, and, recalling her
thoughts from their melancholy subject, she
continued her walk ; for the pensive shade of
twilight was pleasing to her, and the night-
ingales, from the surrounding groves, began
to answer each other in the long-drawn plain-
tive note which always touched her heart ;
while all the fragrance of the flowery thickets
that bounded the ten-ace, was awakened by

286

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLFHO.

the eool evening air, which floated so lightly
among their leaves, that they scarcely trem-
bled as it passed.

Emily came at length to the steps of the
pavilion that terminated the terrace, and
where her last interview with Valancourt,
before her departure from Thoulouse, had so
unexpectedly taken place. The door was
now shut, and she trembled, while she hesi-
tated whether to open it ; but her wish to see
again a place which had been the chief scene
of her former happiness, at length overcom-
ing her reluctance to encounter the painful
regret it would renew, she entered. The
room was obscured by a melancholy shade j
but through the opening lattices, darkened
by the hanging foliage of the vines, appear-
ed the dusky landscape, the Garonne reflect-
ing the evening light, and the west still glow-
ing A chair was placed near one of the
balconies as if some person had been sitting
there, but the other furniture of the pavilion
remained exactly as usual, and Emily
thought it looked as if it had not once been
moved since she set out for Italy. The
silent and deserted air of the place added
solemnity to her emotions, for she heard only
the low whisper of the breeze as it shook the
leaves of the vines, and the very faint mur
mur of the Garonne.

She seated herself in a chair, near the lat-
tice, and yielded to the sadness of her heart,
while she recollected the circumstances of her
parting interview with Valancourt on this
spot. It was here, too, that she had passed
some of the happiest hours of her life with
him, when her aunt favoured the connec-
tion, for here she had often sat or worked,
while he conversed or read ; and she now
well remembered with what discriminating
judgment, with what tempered energy, he
used to repeat some of the sublimest pas-
sages of their favourite anthors ; how often he
would pause to admire with her their excel-
lence, and with what tender delight he would
listen to her remarks, and correct her taste.

" And is it possible," said Emily, as these
recollections returned — " is it possible that
a mind so susceptible of whatever is grand
or beautiful, could stoop to low pursuits,
and be subdued by frivolous temptations?"

She remembered how often she had seen
the sudden tear start in his eye, and had
heard his voice tremble with emotion, while
he related any great or benevolent action, or
repeated a sentiment of the same character.
" And such a mind," said she, " such a heart
were to be sacrificed to the habits of a large
city!"

These recollections becoming too painful
to be endured, she abruptly left the pavilion,
and anxious to escape from the memorials
of her departed happiness, returned towards
the chateau. As she passed along the ter-
race, "he perceived a person walking with a

slow step and a dejected air, under the trees,
at some distance. The twilight, which was
now deep, would not allow her to distinguish
who it was, and she imagined it to be one of
the servants, till the sound of her steps
seeming to reach him, he turned half round,
and she thought she saw Valancourt !

Whoever it was, he instantly struck
among the thickets on the left, and disap-
peared, while Emily, her eyes fixed on the
place whence he had vanished, and her frame
trembling so excessively that she could
scarcely support herself, remained for some
moments unable to quit the spot, and
scarcely conscious of existence. With her
recollection her strength returned, and she
hurried towards the house, where she did
not venture to enquire who had been in the
gardens, lest she should betray her emotion ;
and she sat down alone, endeavouring to
recollect the figure, air, and features of the
person she had just seen. Her view of him,
however, had been so transient, and the
gloom had rendered it so imperfect, that she
could remember nothing with exactness ;
yet the general appearance of his figure,
and his abrupt departure, made her still be-
lieve that this person was Valancourt.
Sometimes, indeed, she thought that her
fancy, which had been occupied by the idea
of him, had suggested his image to her un-
certain sight: but this conjecture was fleeting.
If it was himself whom she had seen, she
wondered much that he should be at Thou-
louse, and more, how he had gained ad-
mittance into the garden •, but as often a9
her impatience prompted her to enquire
whether any stranger had been admitted,
she was restrained by an unwillingness to
betray her doubts \ and the evening wa9
passed in anxious conjecture, and in efforts
to dismiss the subject from her thoughts.
But these endeavours were ineffectual, and
a thousand inconsistent emotions assailed
her, whenever she fancied that Valancourt
might be near heu ; now she dreaded it to be
true, and now she feared it to be false ; and
while she constantly tried to persuade her-
self that she wished the person whom she
had seen might not be Valancourt, her heart
as constantly contradicted her reason.

The following day was occupied by the
visits of several neighbouring families, for-
merly intimate with Madame Montoni, who
came to condole with Emily on her death,
to congratulate her upon the acquisition of
these estates, and to enquire about Montoni,
and concerning the strange reports they had
heard of her own situation j all which was
done with the utmost decos um, and the
visitors departed with as much composure
as they had arrived.

Emily was wearied by these formalities,
and disgusted by the subservient manners
of many persons, who had thought her

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

287

scarcely worthy of common attention, while
she was believed to be a dependant on Ma-
dame Montoni !

" Surely," said she, " there is some magic
in wealth, which can thus make persons pay
their court to it, when it does not even bene
fit themselves. How strange it is, that a
fool or a knave, with riches, should be treat-
ed with more respect by the world, than a
good man or a wise man in poverty !"

It was evening before she was left alone,
and she then wished to have refreshed her
spirits in the free air of her garden ; but she
feared to go thither, lest she should meet
again the person whom she had seen on the
preceding night, and he should prove to be
Valancourt. The suspense and anxiety she
suffered on this subject, she found all her
efforts unable to controul, and her secret
wish to see Valancourt once more, though
unseen by him, powerfully prompted her to
go, but prudence and a delicate pride re-
strained her, and she determined to avoid the
possibility of throwing herself in his way, by
forbearing to visit the gardens for several
days.

When, after near a week, she again ven-
tured thither, she made Annette her compa-
nion, and confined her walk to the lower
grounds, but often started as the leaves
rustled in the breeze, imagining that some
person was among the thickets ; and at the
turn of every alley, she looked forward with
apprehensive expectation. She pursued her
walk thoughtfully and silently, for her agi-
tation would not suffer her to converse with
Annette, to whom, however, thought and
silence were so intolerable, that she did not
scruple at length to talk to her mistress.

" Dear madam," said she, " why do you
start so ? One would think you knew what
has happened."

" What has happened ?" said Emily, in a
faltering voice, and trying to command her
cinol ion.

" The night before last, you know, ma-
dam—"

" I know nothing, Annette," replied her
lady, in a more hurried voice.

« The night before last, madam, there was
a robber in the garden."

u A robber !" said Emily, in an eager, yet
doubting tone.

"I suppose he was a robber, madam;
what else could he be ?"

« Where did you see him, Annette ?" re-
joined Emily, looking round her, and turn-
ing back towards the chateau.

'* It was not I that saw him, madam, it
was Jean, the gardener. It was twelve
o'clock at night ; and as he was coming
across the court to go the back way into the
house, what should he see but somebody
walking in the avenue that fronts the garden
gate ! So, with that, Jean guessed how it

was, and he went i.»to the house for his
gun."

" His gun !" exclaimed Emily.

u Yes, madam, his gun ; and then he
came out into the court to watch him. — .
Presently he sees him come slowly down the
avenue, and lean over the garden gate, and
look up at the house for a long time ; and I
warrant he examined it well, and settled
what window he should breal in at."

u But the gun," said Emily, " the gun !"

u Yes, madam, all in good time. Pre
sently, Jean says, the robber opened the
gate,, and was coming into the court, and
then he thought proper to ask him his busi-
ness : so he called out again, and bade him
say who he was, and what he wanted. But
the man would do neither ; but turned upon
his heel, and passed into the garden again.
Jean knew then well enough how it was,
and so he fired after him."

" Fired !" exclaimed Emily,

" Yes, madam, fired off his gun ; but,
Holy Virgin ! what makes you look so pale,
madam ? The man was not killed, I dare
say ; but if he was, his comrades carried
him off: for, when Jean went in the morn-
ing to look for the body, it was gone, and
nothing to be seen but a track of blood on
the ground. 'Jean followed it, that he might
find out where the man got into the garden,
but it was lost in the grass, and — "

Annette was interrupted; for Emily's
spirits died away, and she would have fallen
to the ground, if the girl had not caught
her, and supported her to a bench, close to
them.

When, after a long absence, her senses
returned, Emily desired to be led to her
apartment ; and, though she trembled with
anxiety to enquire further on the subject of
her alarm, she found herself too ill at pre-
sent to dare the intelligence which it was
possible she might receive of Valancourt. —
Having dismissed Annette, that she might
weep and think at liberty, she endeavoured
lo recollect the exact air of the person whom
she had seen on the terrace, and still her
fancy gave her the figure of Valancourt.-—
She had, indeed, scarcely a doubt that it
was he whom she had seen, and at whom
the gardener had fired ; for the manner of
the latter person, as described by Annette,
was not that of a robber, nor did it appear
probable that a robber would have come
alone to break into a house so spacious as
this.

When Emily thought herself sufficiently
recovered to listen to what Jean might have
to relate, she sent for him ; but he could
inform her of no circumstance that might
lead to a knowledge of the person who had
been shot, or of the consequence of the
wound ; and, after severely reprimanding
him for having fired with bullets, and order-

388

THE MVSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

mg diligent enquiry to be made in the neigh,
bourhood for the discovery of the wounded
person, she dismissed him, and herself re-
mained in the same state of terrible sus-
pense. All the tenderness she had ever felt
for Valancourt was recalled by the sense of
his danger ; and the more she considered
the subject, the more her conviction strength-
ened that it was he who, had visited the gar-
dens for the purpose of soothing the misery
of disappointed affection amidst the scenes
of his former happiness.

w Dear madam," said Annette, when she
returned, " I never saw you so affected be-
fore ; I dare say the man is not killed."

Emily shuddered, and lamented bitterly
the rashness of the gardener in having tired.

u I knew you would be angry enough
about that, madam, or I should have told
you before; and he knew so too, for, says
he, * Annette, say nothing about this to my
lady. She lies on the other side of the house,
so did not hear the gun, perhaps ; but she
would be angry with me if she knew, seeing
there is blood. But then,' says he, * how
one is to keep the garden clear, if one is
afraid to fire at a robber when one sees
him?'"

" No more of this," said Emily ; " pray
leave me."

Annette obeyed, and Emily returned to
the agonizing considerations that had as-
sailed her before, but which she, at length,
endeavoured to soothe by a new remark.-—
If the stranger was Valancourt, it was cer-
tain he had come alone, and it appeared,
therefore, that he had been able to quit the
gardens without assistance ; a circumstance
which did not seem probable, had his wound
been dangerous. With this consideration
she endeavoured to support herself during
the enquiries that were making by her ser-
vants in the neighbourhood ; but day after
day came, and still closed in uncertainty
concerning this affair ; and Emily, suffering
in silence, at length drooped, and sunk
under the pressure of her anxiety. She was
attacked by a slow fever; and when she
yielded to the persuasion of Annette to send
for medical advice, the physicians prescribed
little beside air, gentle exercise, and amuse-
ment ; but how was this last to be obtained ?
She, however, endeavoured to abstract her
thoughts from the subject of her anxiety, by
employing them in promoting that happi-
ness in others which she had lost herself;
and when the evening was fine, she usually
took an airing, including in her ride the cot.
tages of some of her tenants, on whose con-
dition she made such observations as often
enabled her, unasked, to fulfil their wishes.

Her indisposition, and the business she
engaged in relative to this estate, had already
proteccted her stay at Thoulouse beyond the
period she had formerly fixed for her de

part ure to La Vallee ; and now she was un-
willing to leave the only place where it
seemed possible that certainty could be ob-
tained on the subject of her distress. But
the time was come when her presence was
necessary at La Vallee, a letter from the Lady
Blanche now informing her that the count
and herself, being then at the chateau of the
Baron St. Foix, proposed to visit her at La
Vallee on their way home, as soon as they
should be informed of her arrival there.
Blanche added, that they made this visit
with the hope of inducing her to return with
them to Chateau-le-Blanc.

Emily having replied to the letter of her
friend, and said that she should le at La
Vallee in a few days, made hasty prepa-
rations for the journey ; and, in thus lea\ ingr
Thoulouse, endeavoured to support herself
with a belief, that, if any fatal accident had
happened to Valancourt, she must in this
interval have heard of it.

On the evening before her departure, she
went to take leave of the terrace and the
pavilion. The day had been sultry, but a
light shower that fell just before sun-set bad
cooled the air, and given that soft verdure to
the woods and pastures which is so refresh-
ing to the eye; while the rain-drops still
trembling on the shrubs, glittered in the last
yellow gleam that lighted up the scene, and
the air was filled with fragrance exhaled by
the late shower, from herbs and flower*, and
from the earth itself. But the lovely pros-
pect which Emily beheld from the terrace,
was no longer viewed by her with delight ;
she sighed deeply as her eye wandered over
it ; and her spirits were in a state of such
dejection, that she could not think of her
approaching return to La Vallee without
tears, and seemed to mourn again the death
of her father, as if it had been an event of
yesterday. Having reached the pavilion, she
seated herself at the open lattice, and, while
her eyes settled on the distant mountains
that overlooked Gascony, stttl gleaming on
the horizon, though the sun had now left the
plains below, " Alas !" said she, " 1 return to
your long-lost scenes, but shall meet no more
the parents that were wont to render them-
delightful ! — no more shall see the smile of
welcome, or hear the well-known voice ot
fondness ; — all will now be cold and silent
in what was once my happy home."

Tears stole down her cheek, as the
remembrance of what that home had been
returned to her ; but, after indulging her
sorrow for some time, she checked it, accu-
sing herself of ingratitude in forgetting the
friends that she possessed, while she lament-
ed those that were departed; and she at
length left the pavilion and the terrace, with-
out having observed a shadow ot Valancourt,
or of any other person.

t:HAP. XLiX.

** An, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!

Ah, fields belov'd in vain!
Where once my careless childhood stray'd,

A at i anger yet to pain !
I feel the gales, that from ye blow,

A momentary bliss bestow ;
As waving fresh their gladsome wing
My weary soul they seem to soothe."

GRAY.

On the following morning, Emily left
Thoulouse at an early hour, and reached La
Vallee about sun-set. With the melancholy
she experienced on the review of a place
which had been the residence of her parents,
and the scene of her earliest delight, was
mingled, after the fiut shock had subsided,
a tender and undescribable pleasure. For
time had so far blunted the acuteness of her
grief, that she now courted every scene that
awakened the memory of her friends ; in
every room where she had been accustomed
to see them, they also seemed to live again ,
and she felt that La Vallee was still her hap-
piest home. One of the first apartments she
visited was that which had been her father's
library, and here she seated herself in his
arm-chair, and while she contemplated, with
tempered resignation, the picture of past
times, which her memory gave, the tears she
shed could scarcely be called those of grief.

Soon after her arrival^ she was surprised
by a visit from th£ venerable M. Barreaux,
who came impatiently to welcome the daugh-
ter of his late respected neighbour to her
long: deserted home. Emily was comforted
by the presence of an old friend, and they
passed an interesting hour in conversing of
V 28D

former times, and in relating some of the
circumstances that had occurred to each sines
they parted.

The evening was so far advanced, when M .
Barreaux left Emily, that she could not visit
the garden that night } but, on the follow-
ing morning, she traced its long-regretted
scenes with fond impatience ; and, as she
walked beneath the groves which her father
had planted, and where she had so often
sauntered in affectionate conversation with
him, his countenance, his smile, even the
accents of his voice, returned with exactness
to her fancy, and her heart melted to the
tender recollections.

This, too, was his favourite season of the
year, at whichthey had often together admi-
red the rich and variegated tints of these
woods, and the magical effect of autumnal
lights upon the mountains ; and now, the
view of these circumstances made memory
eloquent. As she wandered pensively on,
she fancied the following address

TO AUTUMN.

Sweet Autumn ! how thy melancholy grace
Steals on my heart, as through these shades 1
wind I
Sooth'd by thy breathing sigh, I fondly trace

Each lonely image of the pensive mind !
Lov'd scenes, lov'd friends — long lost! around me
rise,
And wake the melting thought, the tendertear*
That tear, that thought, which more than mirth 1
prize —
Sweet as the gradual tint that paints thy year!
Tin' farewell smile, with fond regret, I view,

Thy beaming lights, soft gilding o'er the woods
Thy distant landscape, touch'd with yellow hue.
While falls the lengthen'd gl»-»m : thy windii.g
floods,

1;0

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

Now veil'd in shade, save where the skids white
sails
Swell to the breeze, and catch thy streaming ray.
But now, e'en now ! — the partial vision fails,

And the wave smiles, as sweeps the cloud away!
Emblem of life ! — Thus checquer'd is its plan,
Thus joy succeeds to grief — thus smiles the varied
man !

One of Emily's earliest enquiries, after
her arrival at La Vallee, was concerning
Theresa, her father's old servant, whom it
may be remembered that M. Quesnel had
turned from the house, when it was let, with-
out any provision. Understanding that she
lived in a cottage at no great distance, Emily
walked thither, and, on approaching, was
pleased to see that her habitation was plea-
santly situated on a green slope, sheltered
by a tuft of oaks, and had an appearance of
comfort and extreme neatness. She found
the old woman within, picking vine-stalks,
\vho, on perceiving her young mistress, was
nearly overcome with joy.

" Ah ! my dear young lady " said she, " I
thought I should never see you again in this
world, when I heard you was gone to that
outlandish country. I have been hardly
used since you went ; I little thought they
would have turned me out of my old master's
family in my old age !'*

Emily lamented the circumstance, and
then assured her that she would make her
latter days comfortable, and expressed satis-
faction on seeing her in so pleasant an habi-
tation.

" Theresa thanked her with tears, adding,
" Yes, mademoiselle, it is a very comfortable
home, thanks to the kind friend who took me
out of my distress when you was too far off
to help me, and placed me here ! 1 little
thought ! — but no more of that — "

" And who was this kind friend ?" said
Emily : " whoever it was, I shall consider
him as mine also."

" Ah, mademoiselle ! That friend forbade
me to blazon the good deed— 1 must not say
who it was. But how you are altered since
I saw you last! You look so pale now, and
so thfrk too ; but then there is my old mas-
ter's smile ! Yes, that will never leave you,
any more than the goodness that used to
make him smile. Alas-a-day ! the poor lost
a friend indeed when he died !"

Emily was affected by this mention of her
father, which Theresa observing, changed
the subject. " I heard, mademoiselle," said
she, " that Madame Cheron married a foreign
gentleman, after all, and took you abroad ;
how does she do ?"

Emily now mentioned her death. " Alas !"
said Theresa, "if she had not been my mas-
ter's sister, I should never have loved her ;
she was always so cross. But how does that
dear young gentleman do, M. Valancourt?
he was a handsome youth, and a good one ;
is hf well, mademoiselle ?"

Emily was much agitated.

"A blessing on him!" continued Theresa.
"Ah, my dear young lady, you need not look
so shy ; I know all about it. Do you think
I do not know that he loves you? Why, when
you was away, mademoiselle, he used to come
to the chateau and walk about it, so discon-
solate ! He would go into every room in the
lower part of the house, and sometimes he
would sit himself down in a chair, with his
arms across, and his eyes on the floor, and
there he would sit and think, and think for
the hour together. He used to be very fond
of the south parlour, because I told him it
used to be your's •, and there he would stay,
looking at the pictures which I said you
drew, and playing upon your lute that hung
up by the window ; and^reading in your
books till sun-set ; and then he must go back
to his brother's chateau. And then "

"It is enough, Theresa," said Emily. —
" How long have you lived in this cottage
— and how can I serve you ? will you remain
here, or return and live with me ?"

" Nay, ma'amselle !" said Theresa, " do
not be so shy to your poor old servant. 1
am sure it is no disgrace to like such a good
young gentleman."

A deep sigh escaped from Emily.

" Ah ! how he did love to talk of you ; I
loved him for that. Nay, for that matter,
he liked to hear me talk, for he did not say
much himself. But I soon found out what
he came to the chateau about. Then
would go into the garden, and down toj
terrace, and sit under that great tree
for the day together with one of your books
in his hand ; but he did not read much, I
fancy 5 for one day I happened to go that
way, and I heard somebody talking. Who
can be here ? says I : I am sure 1 let nobody
into the garden but the chevalier ! so I
walked softly to see wlio it could be ; and
behold! it was the chevalier himself, talking
to himself about you. And he repeated
your name, and sighed so ! and said, he had
lost you for ever, for that you would never
return for him. I thought he was out in his
reckoning there, but I said nothing, and stole
away."

"No more of this trifling," said Emily,
awakening from her reverie : " it displeases
me."

" But when M. Quesnel let the chateau, I
thought it would have broke the chevalier's
heart."

" Theresa," said Emily seriously, " you
must name the chevalier no more !"

" Not name him, mademoiselle !" cried
Theresa : " what times are come up, now ?
Why, 1 love the chevalier next to my old
master and you, mademoiselle."

" Perhaps your love was not well bestow-
ed, then," replied Emily, trying to conceal
her tears ; " but, however that might be, we
shall meet no more." a

there

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

1{)\

tt Mee.t no more! — not well bestowed!"
exclaimed Theresa. " What do 1 hear? No,
mademoiselle; my love was well bestowed,
for it was the Chevalier Valancourt who gave
me this cottage, and has supported me in
my old age, ever since M. Quesnel turned
me from my master's house."

"The Chevalier Valancourt !" said Emily,
'.trembling extremely.

" Yes, mademoiselle, he himself, though
he made me promise not to tell; but how
could one help, when one heard him ill
spoken of? Ah '. dear young lady, you may
well weep if you have behaved unkindly to
him, for a more tender heart than his never
young gentleman had. He found me out in
my distress, when you was too far off to
lielp me ; and M. Quesnel refused to do so,
and bade me go to service again. — Alas ! I
was too old for that! — The chevalier
found me, and bought me this cottage,
and gave me money to furnish it, and bade
me seek out another poor woman to live
with me ; and he ordered his brother's stew-
ard to pay me every quarter that which has
supported me in comfort.. Think, then,
mademoiselle, whether I have not reason to
speak well of the chevalier. And there are
others who could have afforded it better
than he ; and I am afraid he has hurt him-
self by his generosity, for quarter-day is?
gone by long since, and no money for me J
Bu^io not weep so, mademoiselle : you are
ndHJny surely to hear of the poor cheva-
Jie?Vgoodness."

" Sorry !" said Emily, and wept the more.
" But how long is it since you have seen
him r

" Not this many a day, mademoiselle."
a When did you hear of him?" enquired
Emily, with increased emotion.

" Alas ! never since he went away so sud-
denly into Languedoc; and he M'as but just
come from Paris then, or I should have seen
him, I am sure. Quarter-day is gone by
long since, and as I said, no money for me ;
and I begin to fear some harm has happened
to him •, and if I was not so far from Es-
tuviere, and so lame, I should have gone to
enquire before this time j and I have nobody
to send so far."

Emily's anxiety as to the fate of Valan-
court was now scarcely endurable 5 and
since propriety would not suffer her to send
to the chateau of his brother, she requested
that Theresa would immediately hire some
person to go to his steward from herself j
and, when he asked for the quarterage due
to her, to make enquiries concerning Valan-
court. But she first made Theresa pro-
mise never to mention hei name in this
affair, or ever with that of the Chevalier
Valancourt ; and her former faithfulness to
iVI. St Auhert induced Emily to confide in
hei assurances. Theresa now joyfully un-

dertook to procure a person for this errand •
and then Emily, after giving her a sum ot
money to supply her with present comforts,
returned with spirits heavily oppressed to
her home, lamenting, more than ever, that a
heart possessed of so much benevolence as
Valancourt's, should have been contaminated
by the vices of the world ; but affected by
the delicate affection which his kindness to
her old servant expressed for herself.

CHAP. L.

-'' Light thickens, and the crow

M iikes wing- to the rooky wood :
Good things of day begin to droop, and diowze
While night's black agents to their preys do rouze.

MACBETH.

Meanwhile Count de Villefort ana Lady
Blanche had passed a pleasant fortnight at
the Chateau de St Foix with the baron and
baroness, during which they made frequent
excursions among the mountains, and were
delighted with the romantic wildness of the
Pyrenean scenery. It was with regret that
the count bade adieu to his old friends,
although with the hope of being soon
united with them in one family ; for it was
settled that M. St. Foix, who now attended
them into Gascony, should receive the hand
of the Lady Blanche upon their arrival at
Chateau-le-Blanc. As the road from the
Baron's residence to La Vallee was over
some of the wildest track of the Pyrenees,
and where a carriage- wheel had never pas-
sed, the count hired mules for himself and
his family, as well as a couple of stout
guides, who were well armed, informed of
all the passes of the mountains, and who
boasted too that they were acquainted with
every brake and dingle in the way ; could
tell the names of all the highest points of
this chain of Alps, knew every forest that
spread along the narrow vallies, the shal-
lowest part of every torrent they must cross,
and the exact distance of every goatherd's
and hunter's cabin, they should have occa-
sion to pass — which last article of learning
required no very capacious memory, for
even such simple inhabitants were but thinly
scattered over these wilds.

The count left the Chateau de St. Foix
early in the morning, with an intention of
passing the night at a little inn upon the
mountains, about half way to La Vallee, of
which his guides had informed him ; and
though this was frequented chiefly by
Spanish muleteers on their route into France
and of course would afford only sorey accom
modation; the count had no alternative, for
it was the only place like an inn on the
road.

After a day of admiration and fatigue, the
travellers found themselves, about sunset,
in a woody valley, overlooked on every sine
by abrupt heights. They had proceeded

for many leagues w'thout seeing a human
habitation, and had only heard now and then
at a distance the melancholy tinkling of a
sheep-bell : but now they caught the notes
of merry music, and presently saw within
a little green recess among the rocks a group
of mountaineers tripping through a dance.
The count, who could not look upon the
happiness any more than on the misery of
others with indifference, halted to enjoy this
scene of simple pleasure. The g»oup before
him consisted of French and Spanish pea-
sants, the inhabitants of a neighbouring
hamlet, some of whom were performing a
sprightly dance, the women with castanets
in their hands, to the sounds of a lute and a
tamborine, till, from the brisk melody of
France, the music softened into a slow
movement, to which two female peasants
danced a Spanish pavan.

The count, comparing this with the scenes
of such gaiety as he had witnessed at Paris,
where false taste painted the features, and,
while it vainly tried to supply the glow of
nature, concealed the charms of animation—
where affectation so often distorted the air,
and vice perverted the manners — sighed to
think that natural graces and innocent plea-
sures flourished in the wilds of solitude,
while they dropped amidst the concourse
of polished society. But the lengthening
shadows reminded the travellers that they
had no time to lose; and leaving the joyous
group, they pursued their way towards the
little inn, which was to shelter them from the
night.

The rays of the setting sun now threw a

yellow gleam upon the forests of pine and
chesnut that swept down the lower region
of the mountains, and gave - resplendent
tints to the snowy points above. But soon
even this light faded fast, and the scenery
assumed a more tremendous appearance, in-
vested with the obscurity of twilight. Where
the torrent had been seen it was now only
heard ; where the wild cliffs had displayed
every variety of form and attitude, a dark
mass of mountains now alone appeared ; and
the vale which far, far below, had opened its
dreadful chasm, the eye could no longer
fathom. A melancholy gleam still lingered
on the summits of the highest Alps, over-
looking the deep repose of evening, and
seeming to make the stillness of the hour
more awful.

Blanche viewed the scene in silence, and
listened with enthusiasm to the murmur of
the pines, that extended in dark lines along
the mountains, and to the faint voice of the
izard among the rocks, that came at inter-
vals on the air. But her enthusiasm sunk
into apprehension, when, as the shadows
deepened, she looked upon the doubtful
precipice that bordered the road, as well as
on the various fantastic forms of danger
that glimmered through the obscurity be-
yond it ; and she asked her father how far
they were from the inn, and whether he did
not consider the road to be dangerous at
this late hour. The count repeated the
first question to his guides, who returned a
doubtful answer, adding, that when it was
darker, it would be safest to rest till the
moon rose, w It is scarcely eafe to pr*-n tj

THE MYSTI-RII-S OP UDOLPHO.

293

now," said the count ; but the guides assu-
ring him that there was no danger, went on.
Blanche, revived by this assurance, again
indulged a pensive pleasure as she watched
the progress of twilight gradually spreading
its tints over the woods and mountains, and
stealing from the eye every minuter feature
of the scene, till the grand outlines of na-
ture alone remained. Then fell the silent
dews 5 and every wild flower and aromatic
plant that bloomed among the cliffs breathed
forth its sweetness ; then, too, when the
mountain-bee had crept into its blossomed
bed, and the hum of every little insect that
had floated gaily in the sun-beam, was hush-
ed, the sound of many streams, not heard
till now, murmured at a distance. — The
bats alone, of all the animals inhabiting this
region, seemed awake ; and while they flitted
across the silent path which Blanche was
pursuing, she remembered the following:
lines which Emily had given her :

TO THE BAT.

From haunt of man, from day's obtrusive glare,
Thou shroud' st thee in the ruin's ivy'd tow'r.
Or in some shadowy glen's romantic bow'r,
Where wizard forms their mystic charms prepaic,
Where Horror lurks, and ever- boding- Care !
But, at the sweet and silent ev'ning hour,
When clos'd in sleep is ev'ry languid flow'r,
Thou lov'st to sport upon the twilight air,
Mocking the" eye that would thy course pursue,
In many a wanton round ; elastic, gay,
Thou flitt'st athwart the pensive wand'rer's way,
As his lone footsteps print the mountain-dew.
From Tndian isles thou com'st, with Summer's car,
Twilight thy love — thy guide her beaming star !

To a warm imagination, the dubious
forms that float half-veiled in darkness,
afford a higher delight than the most dis-
tinct scenery that the sun can shew. While
the fancy thus wanders over landscapes
partly of its own creation, a sweet compla-
cency steals upon the mind, and

Refines it all to subtlest feeling,
Bids the tear of rapture roll.

The distant note of a torrent, the weak
trembling of the breeze among the woods, or
the far-off sound of a human voice now lost
and heard again, are circumstances which
wonderfully heighten the enthusiastic tone
of the mind. The young St. Foix, who saw
the presentations of a fervid fancy, and
felt whatever enthusiasm could suggest,
sometimes interrupted the silence which the
rest of the party seemed by mutual consent
to preserve, remarking and pointing out to
Blanche the most striking effect of the hour
upon the scenery •, while Blanche, whose
apprehensions were beguiled by the conver-
sation of her lover, yielded to the taste so
congenial to his, and they conversed in a
low restrained voice, the effect of the pensive
tranquillity which twilight and the scene in-

spired, rather than of any fear that they
should be heard. But while the heart was
thus soothed to tenderness, St. Foix gradu-
ally mingled with his admiration of the
country a mention of his affection ; and he
continued to speak, and Blanche to listen,
till the mountains, the woods, and the ma-
gical illusions of twilight, were remem-
bered no more.

The shadows of evening soon shifted to the
gloom of night, which was somewhat anti-
cipated by the vapours, that, gathering fast
round the mountains, rolled in dark wreaths
along their sides j and the guides proposed
to rest till the moon should rise, adding,
that they thought a storm was coming on.
As they looked round for a spot that might
afford some kind of shelter, an object wag
perceived obscurely through the dusk, on a
point of rock, a little way down the moun-
tain, which they imagined to be a hunter's
or a shepherd's cabin, and the party with
cautious steps proceeded towards it. Their
labour however was not rewarded, or their
apprehensions soothed; for, on reaching the
object of their search, they discovered a
monumental cross, which marked the spot to
have been polluted by murder.

The darkness would not permit them to
read the inscription ; but the guides knew
this to be a cross raised to the memory of a
Count de Beliard, who had been murdered
here by a horde of banditti that had infested
this part of the Pyrenees a few years be
fore ; and the uncommon size of the monu-
ment seemed to justify the supposition that
it was erected for a person of some dis-
tinction. Blanche shuddered as she listen-
ed to some horrid particulars of the count's
fate, which one of the guides related, in a
low restrained tone, as if the sound of his
own voice frightened him ; but while they
lingered at the cross, attending to his narra-
tive, a flash of lightning glanced upon the
rocks, thunder muttered at a distance, and
the travellers, now alarmed, quitted this
scene of solitary horror in search of shelter.

Having regained their former track, the
guides, as they passed on, endeavoured to
interest the count by various stories of rob-
bery, and even of murder, which had been
perpetrated in the very places they must un
avoidably pass, with accounts of their own
dauntless courage and wonderful escapes.
The chief guide, or rather he who was the
most completely armed, drawing forth one
of the four pistols that were tucked into his
belt, swore that it had shot three robbers
within the year. He then brandished a clasp-
knife of enormous length, and was going to
recount the wonderful execution it had done,
when St. Foix, perceiving that Blanche wras
terrified, interrupted him. The count, mean-
while, secretly laughing at the terrible his-
tories and extravagant boastings of the mau-

29 i

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

resolved to humour him, and, telling Blanche
in a whisper his design, began to recount
some exploits of his own, which infinitely
exceeded any related by the guide.

>To these surprising circumstances he so
artfully gave the colouring of truth, that the
courage of the guides was visibly affected by
them, who continued silent long after the
count had ceased to speak. The loquacity
of the chief hpo thus laid asleep, the vigi-
lance of his eyes and ears seemed more tho-
roughly awakened, for he listened with much
appearance of anxiety, to the deep thunder
which murmured at intervals, and . often
paused, as the breeze, that was now rising,
rushed among the pines. But when he made
a sudden halt before a luft of corktrees that
projected over the road, and drew forth a
pistol, before he would venture to brave the
banditti which might lurk behind it, the .
count could no longer refrain from laughter.
' Having now, however, arrived at a level
spot, 'somewhat sheltered from the air by
overhanging cliffs, .and by a wood of larch
that rose over a precipice • on the left, and
the guides being yet ignorant how far they
were from 'the inn, the travellers, determined
to rest till the moon* should rise or the storm
disperse. Blanche, recalled to a sense of the
present moment, looked on the surrounding
gloom with terror '; but giving her hand to
St. Foix, 'she alighted, and the whole party
entered a kind of cave, if such it could be
called, which was only a shallow cavity,
formed by the curve of impending rocks. A
light being struck, a tire was kindled, whose
blaze afforded some degree of cheerfuluesls
and no smaU comfort, for though the day
had been hot, the niglit air of this moun-
taiuous 'region was chilling; a fire was
partly necessary also to keep off the wolves,
with which those wilds were infested.

Provisions being spread upon & projection
of the rock, the count aud.his family partook
of a supper, which, in a scene less rude,
would certainly have been thought less ex-
cellent. When the repast was finished, St.
Foix, 'impatient for the moon, sauntered
along the precipice, to a. point that fronted
the east ; but all was yet wrapped hvglqom,
and the silence of night was broken only by the
murmuring of woods, that waved far below,
or by distant thunder, and now and then by
the faint voices of the party he had quitted.
He viewed* with emotions of awful subli-
mity, the long volumes of sulphureous
clouds that floated along the upper and
middle regions of the air, and the lightnings
that flashed from them, sometimes silently,,
and, at others, followed by sullen peals of
thunder, which the mountains feebly pro-
longed,-while the whole horizon, and the
abyss on which he stood, were discovered in
the momentary light. Upon the succeeding
darkness, the fire which had been kindled in

(lie cave threw a partial gleam, illumining
some points of the opposite rocks, and the
summits of pine-woods that hung beetling
on the cliffs below, while their recesses seem-
ed to frown in deeper shade.

St. Foix stopped to observe the picture
which the party in the cave, presented, where
the elegant, form of Blanche was finely con-
trasted by the majestic figure of the count,
who was seated by her on a rude stone, and
each was rendered more impressive by the
grotesque habits and strong features of the
guides and other attendants, who were in
the back ground of the piece. The effect of
the light, too, was interesting : on the sur-
rounding figures it threw a strong though
pale gleam, a^id glittered on their bright
arms ; while upon/ the foliage of a gigantic
larch, that impended its shade over the cliff
above, appeared a red, dusky tint, deepening
almost imperceptibly into the blackness of
night.

While St. Foix contemplated the scene,
the moon, broad and yellow, rose over the
eastern summits, from among embattled '
Clouds, and shewed dimly the grandeur of
the heavens, the mass of vapours that rolled
half way down the precipice beneath, and
the doubtful mountains.

" What dreadful pleasure ! there to stand sublime,
Like shipwreck' u mariner on desert coast,
And view th' enormous waste of vapour, test
In billows length'ning to the horizon round J1'*

From this romantic reverie he was awa-
kened by the voices of the guides repeating
his name, which was reverberated from cliff
to cliff, till an hundred tongues seemed to
call him *, when he soon quieted the fears of
the count and the Lady Blanche, by return-
ing to the cave. As the stoym, however,
seemed approaching, they did not quit their
place of shelter ; and the count, seated be-
tween his daughter and St .j Foix, endeavour-
ed to divert the fears of the former, and
conversed on subjects relating to the natu-
ral history of the scene, among which
they wandered. He spoke of the mine-
ral and fossile substances found in the
depths of these mountains ; the veins of
marble and granite with which they abound-
ed ; the strata of shells discovered near their
summits, many thousand fathom above the
level of the sea, and at a vast distance from
its present shore ; of the tremendous chasms
and caverns of the rocks, the grotesque form
of the mountains, and the various pheno-
mena that seem to stamp upon the world
the history of the deluge. From the natural
history he descended to the menti6n of events
and circumstances connected with the civil
story of the Pyrenees ; named some of the
most remarkable fortresses which Fiance
and Spain had erected in the passes of these

* The Miiistnll.

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPhO.

2i'S

mountains ; and gave a brief account of
some celebrated sieges aud encounters in
early times, when Ambition first frightened
Solitude from these her deep recesses, made
her mountains, which before had echoed
only to the torrent's roar, tremble with the
clang of arms, and when man's first foot-
steps in her sacred haunts had left the print
of blood !

As Blanche sat, attentive to the narrative,
that rendered the scenes doubly interesting,
and resigned to solemn emotion, while she
considered that she was on the very ground
once polluted by these events, her reverie
was suddenly interrupted by a sound that
came in the wind — it was the distant bark of
a watch-dog. The travellers listened with
eager hope, and, as the wind blew stronger,
fancied that the sound came from no great
distance : and the guides having little doubt
that it proceeded from the inn they were in
search of, the count determined to pursue
his way. The moon now afforded a stronger,
though still an uncertain light, as she moved
among broken clouds ; and the travellers,
led by the sound, re-commenced their jour-
ney along the brow of the precipice, preced-
ed by a single torch, that now contended with
flie moon-light •, for the guides, believing
they should reach the inn soon after sun-set,
had neglected to provide more. In silent
caution they followed the sound, which was
heard but at intervals, and which, after
some time, entirely ceased. The guides en-
deavoured, however, to point their course to
the quarter whence it had issued ; but the
deep roaring of a torrent soon seized their
attention, and presently they came to a tre-
mendous chasm of the mountain, which
seemed to forbid all further progress.
Blanche alighted from her mule, as did the
count and St. Foix, white the guides tra-
versed the edge in search of a bridge, which,
however rude, might convey them to the
opposite side ; and they at length confessed,
what the count had begun to suspect, that
they had been for some time doubtful of
their way, and were now certain only that
they had lost it.

At a little distance was discovered a rude
and dangerous passage, formed by an enor-
mous pine, which, thrown across the chasm,
united the opposite precipices, and which
had been felled probably by the hunter to
facilitate his chace of the izard or the wolf.
The whole party, the guides excepted, shud-
dered at the prospect %of crossing this Alpine
bridge, whose sides afforded no kind of de-
fence, and from which to fall was to die.
The guides, however, prepared to lead over
the mules, while Blanche stood trembling on
the brink, and listening to the roar of the
waters which were seen descending from the
rocks above, overhung with lofty pines, and
thence precipitating themselves into the

deep abyss, where their white surges gleam-
ed faintly in the moon-light. The poor
animals proceeded over this perilous bridge
with instinctive caution, neither frightened
by the noise of the cataract or deceived by
the gloom which the impending foliage
threw athwart their way. It was now that
the solitary torch, which had been hitherto
of little service, was found to be an in-
estimable treasure ; and Blanche, terrified
shrinking, but endeavouring to recollect all
her firmness and presence of mind, preceded
by her lover, and supported by her father,
followed the red gleam of the torch in safety
to the opposite cliff.

As they went on, the heights contracted,
and formed a narrow pass, at the bottom of
which the torrent they had just crossed was
heard to thunder. But they were again
cheered by the bark of a dog keeping watch,
perhaps over the flocks of the mountains, to
protect them from the nightly descent of the
wolves. The sound was much nearer than
before ; and while they rejoiced in the hope
of soon reaching a place of repose, a light
was seen to glimmer at a distance. It ap-
peared at a height considerably above the
level of their path, and was lost and seen
again, as if the waving branches of tret a
sometimes excluded and then admitted its
rays. The guides hallooed with all their
strength, but the sound of no human voice
was heard in return ; and at length, as a
more effectual means of making themselves
known, they fired a pistol. But while they
listened in anxious expectation, the noise of
the explosion was alone heard echoing
among the rocks, and it gradually sunk in-
to silence, which no friendly hint of man dis-
turbed. The light, however, that had been
seen before, now became plainer, and soon
after voices were heard indistinctly on the
wind; but upon the guides repeating the
call, the voices suddenly ceased, and the
light disappeared.

The Lady Blanche was now almost sink-
ing beneath the pressure of anxiety, fatigue,
and apprehension ; and the united efforts of
the count and St. Foix could scarcely sup-
port her spirits. As they continued to ad-
vance, an object was perceived on a point of
rock above, which, the strong rays of the
moon then falling on it, appeared to be a
watch-tower. The count, from its situation,
and some other circumstances, had little
doubt that it was such -y and believing that
the light had proceeded from thence, he en-
deavoured to re-animate his daughter's spi-
rits by the near prospect of shelter and re-
pose, which, however rude the accommoda-
tion, a ruined watch-tower might afford.

" Numerous watch - towers have been
erected among the Pyrenees," said the
count, anxious only to call Blanche's atten-
tion from the subject of her fears ; " and the

rw

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOL^HO.

method by which they give intelligence of
the approach of the enemy is, you know, by
tires kindled on the summits of these edi-
fices. Signals have thus sometimes been
communicated from post to post along a
frontier line of several hundred miles in
length. Then, as occasion may require, the
lurking armies emerge from their fortresses
and forests, and march forth, to defend per-
haps the entrance of some grand pass, where,
planting themselves on the heights, they
assail their astonished enemies, who wind
along the glen below, with fragments of the
shattered cliff, and pour death and defeat
upon them. The ancient forts and watch*
towers, overlooking the grand passes of the
Pyrenees, are carefully preserved ; but some
of those in inferior stations have been suffer-
ed to fall into decay, and are now frequently
converted into the more peaceful habitation
of the hunter or the shepherd, who after a
day of toil retires hither, and, with his faith-
ful dogs, forgets, near a cheerful blaze, the
labour of the chace, or the anxiety of col-
lecting his wandering flocks, while he is
sheltered from the nightly storm."

" But are they always thus peacefully in-
habited ?" said the Lady Blanche.

" No," replied the count, " 'hey are
sometimes the asylum of French and Spa-
nish smugglers, who cross the mountains
with contraband gooos trom their respective
countries, and the ktter are particularly
numerous, against whom strong parties of
the king's troops are sometimes sent. But
the desperate resolution of these adven-
turers, who, knowing that if they are taken,
they must expiate the breach of the law by
the most cruel death, travel in large parties,
well armed, often daunts the courage of the
soldiers. The smugglers, who seek only
safety, never engage when they can possibly
avoid it ; the military also, who know that
in these encounters danger is certain, and
glory almost unattainable, are equally re
luctant to fight; an engagement therefore
very seldom happens ; but when it does, it
never concludes till after the most desperate
and bloody conflict. You are inattentive,
Blanche," added the count : " 1 have
wearied you with a dull subject; but see
yonder, in the moon-light is the edifice we
have been in search of, and we are fortu-
nate to be so near it before the storm
bursts."

Blanche looking up, perceived that they
were at the foot of the cliff, on whose sum-
mit the building; stood, but no light now
issued from it ; the barking of the dog
»oo had for some time ceased ; and the
guides began to doubt whether this was
really the object of their search. From the
distance at which they surveyed it, shewn
imperfectly by a cloudy moon, it appeared
to be of more extent than a single watch

tower ; but the difficulty was how to ascenti
the height, whose abrupt declivities seemed
to afford no kind of path-way.

While the guides carried forward the torch
to examine the cliff, the count remaining
with Blanche and St. Foix at its foot, under
the shadow of the woods, endeavoured again
to beguile the time by conversation, but
again anxiety abstracted the mind of Blanche;
and he then consulted apart with St. Foix,
whether it would be advisable, should a path
be found, to venture to an edifice which
might possibly harbour banditti. They con-
sidered that their own party was not small,
and that several of them were well armed $
and after enumerating the dangers to be in-
curred by passing the night in the open wild,
exposed perhaps to the effects of a thunder-
storm, there remained not a doubt that they
ought to endeavour to obtain admittance to
the edifice above at any hazard respecting
the inhabitants it might harbour; but the
darkness and the dead silence that surround-
ed it, appeared to contradict the probability
of its being inhabited at all.

A shout from the guides aroused their
attention, after which, in a few minutes, one
of the count's servants returned with intel-
ligence that a path was found, and they im-
mediately hastened to join the guides, when
they all ascended a little winding way cut
in the rock among the thickets of dwarf
wood, and after much toil and some danger
reached the summit, where several ruined
towers, surrounded by a massy wall, rose to
their view, partially illumined by the moon-
light. The space around the building was
silent, and apparently forsaken, but the
count was cautious: " Step softly," said
he, in a low voice, u while we reconnoitre
the edifice."

Having proceeded silently along for some
paces, they stopped at a gate whose portals
were terrible even in ruins ; and, after a
moment's hesitation, passed on to the court
of entrance, but paused again at the head
of a terrace, which, branching from it, ran
along the brow of a precipice. Over this
rose the main body of the edifice, which was
now seen to be not a watch-tower, but one
of those ancient fortresses that from age
and neglect had fallen to decay. Many
parts of it, however, appeared to be still en-
tire ; it was built of grey stone, in the heavy
Saxon Gothic style, with enormous round
towers, buttresses of proportionable strength,
and the arch of the large gate which seemed
to open into the hall of the fabric was
round, as was that of a window above. The
air of solemnity which must so strongly
have characterized the pile even in the days
of its early strength, was now considerably
heightened by its shattered battlements anr1
half-demolished walls, and by the huge
masses of rum scattered in its wide a

THE MYSTERIES OI tJDOLPMO.

'29'

now silent and grass- grown. In this court
of entrance stood the gigantic remains of an
oak, that seemed to have flourished and de-
cayed with the building, which it still ap-
peared frowningly to protect by the few
remaining branches, leafless and moss-
grown, that crowned its trunk, and whose
wide extent told how enormous the tree had
been in a former age. This fortress was
evidently once of great strength, and from
its situation, on a point of rock, impending
over a deep glen, had been of great power
to annoy as well as to resist ; the count,
therefore, as he stood surveying it, was
somewhat surprised that it had been suf-
fered, ancient as it was, to sink into ruins,
and its present lonely and deserted air ex-
cited in his breast emotions of melancholy
awe. While he indulged for a moment
these emotions, he thought he heard a sound
of remote voices steal upon the stillness
from within the building, the front of which
he again surveyed with scrutinizing eyes,
bnt yet no light was visible. He now de-
termined to walk round the fort, to that
remote part of it whence he thought the
voices had arisen, that he might examine
whether any light could be discerned there,
before he ventured to knock at the gate ; for
this purpose he entered upon the terrace,
where the remains of cannon were yet ap-
parent in the thick walls ; but he had not
proceeded many paces when his steps were
suddenly arrested by the loud barking of a
dog within, and which he fancied to be the
same whose voice had been the means of
bringing the travellers thither. It now ap-
peared certain that the place was inhabited,
and the count returned to consult again
with St. Foix, whether he should try to ob-
tain admittance, for its wild aspect had
somewhat shaken his former resolution -y
but, after a second consultation, he submit-
ted to the considerations which before deter-
mined him, and which were strengthened by
the discovery of the dog that guarded the
fort, as well as by the stillness that perva-
ded it. He therefore ordered one of his
servants to knock at the gate, who was
advancing to obey him, when a light ap-
peared through the loop-hole of one of the
towers, and the count called loudly, but
receiving no answer, he went up to the gate
himself, and struck upon it with an iron-
pointed pole which had assisted him to
climb the steep. When the echoes had
ceased, that this blow had awakened, the
renewed barking — and there were now
more than one dog— was the only sound
that was heard. The count stepped back a
few paces to observe whether the light was
in the tower, and perceiving that it was
gone, he returned to the portal, and had
lifted the pole to strike again, when again
he fancied he heard the murmur of voices

within, and paused to listen. He was con-
firmed in the supposition, but they were too
remote to be heard otherwise than in a mur
mur, and the count now let the pole fall
heavily upon the gate, when almost imme-
diately a profound silence followed. It was
apparent that the people within had heard
the sound, and their caution in admitting
strangers gave him a favourable opinion of
them. " They are either hunters or shep-
herds," said he, " who, like ourselves, have
probably sought shelter from the night
within these walls, and are fearful of admit-
ting strangers, lest they should prove rob-
bers. I will endeavour to remove their
fears." So saying, he caHed aloud, " We
are friends who ask shelter from the night. "
In a few moments steps were heard within,
which approached, and a voice then en-
quired— " Who calls?" "Friends," repeat
ed the count ; " open the gates and you
shall know more."--Strong bolts were now
heard to be undrawn, and a man, armed
with a hunting spear, appeared. " What is
it you want at this hour ?" said he. The
count beckoned his attendants, and then
answered, that he wished to enquire the way
to the nearest cabin. " Are you so little ac-
quainted with these mountains," said the
man, " as not to know that there is none
within several leagues ? I cannot shew you
the way -, you must seek it — there's a moon.'*
Saying this, he was closing the gate, and the
count was turning away half disappointed
and half afraid, when another voice was heard
from above, and, on looking up, he saw a
light, and a man's face at the grate of the
portal. " Stay, friend, you have lost your
way ?" said the voice. " You are hunters,
I suppose, like ourselves : I will be with
you presently." The voice ceased, and the
light disappeared. Blanche had been alarm-
ed by the appearance of the man who had
opened the gate, and she now entreated her
father to quit the place 5 but the count had
observed the hunter's spear which he car-
ried ; and the words from the tower encou
raged him to await the event. The gate
was soon opened, and several men in hun-
ters' habits, who had heard above what had
passed below, appeared, and having listened
some time to the count, told him he was
welcome to rest there for the night. They
then pressed him, with much courtesy, to
enter and to partake of such fare as they
were about to sit down to. The count, who
had observed them attentively while they
spoke, was cautious and somewhat suspici
ous ; but he was also weary, fearful of the
approaching storm, and of encountering
Alpine heights in the obscurity of night ;
being likewise somewhat confident in the
strength and number of his attendants, he,
after some further consideration, determined
to accept the invitation. With this rcsolu-

2*8

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

tion he called his servants, who, advancing
round the tower, behind which some of them
had silently listened to this conference, fol-
lowed their lord, the Lady Blanche, and St J
Foix, into the fortress. The strangers led
them on to a large and rude hall, partially
seen by a fire that blazed at its extremity,
round which four men in the hu liters' dress
were seated, and on the hearth were several
dogs stretched in sleep. In the middle of
the hall stood a large table, and over the
fire some part of an animal was boiling. As
the count approached, the men arose ; and
the dogs, half raising themselves, looked
fiercely at the strangers, but on hearing
their masters' voices, kept their postures on
the hearth.

Blanche looked round this gloomy and
spacious hall \ then at the men, and to her
father, who, smiling cheerfully at her, ad-
dressed himself to the hunters. "This is
an hospitable hearth," said he, " the blaze
of a fire is reviving after having wandered
so long in these dreary wilds. Your dogs
are tired ; what success have you had ?"
" Such as we usually have," replied one of
the men, who had been seated in the hall,
" we kill our game with tolerable certainty."
" These are fellow hunters," said one of the
men, who had brought the count hither,
" that have lost their way, and I have told
them there is room enough in the fort for
us all." " Very true, very true, replied his
companion : " What luck have you had in the
chace, brothers ? We have killed two izards,
and that you will say is pretty well." — " You
mistake, friend," said the count, " we are
not hunters, but travellers ; but if you will
admit us to hunters' fare, we shall be well
contented, and will repay your kindness."
" Sit down then, brother," said one of the
men : " Jacques, lay more fuel on the fire,
the kid will soon be ready :. bring a seat for
the lady too. Ma'amselle, will you taste
our brandy ? It is true Barcelona, and as -
bright as ever flowed from a keg." Blanche
timidly smiled, and was going to refuse,
when her father prevented her, by taking,
with a good-humoured air, the glass offered
to his daughter; and Mons. St. Foix, who
was seated next her, pressed her hand, and
gave her an encouraging look $• but her at-
tention was engaged by ' a man who sat
silently by the fire, observing St. Foix with
a steady and earnest eye.

" You lead a jolly life here," said the
count. " The life of a hunter is a pleasant
and a healthy one ; and the repose is sweet
which succeeds to your labour."

" Yes," replied one or hi* hosts, " our life
is pleasant enough. We live here only du-
ring the summer and autumnal months; in
winter, the place is dreary, and the swoln
torrents that descend from the heights put
a stop to the chactv"

" 'Tis a life of liberty arid enjoyment,**
said the count ; " I should like to pass a
month in your way very well."

"We find employment for our guns
too," said a man who stood behind the
count : "here are plenty of birds of delici-
ous flavour, that feed upon the wild thyme
and herbs that grow in the vallies. Now I
think of it, there is a brace of birds hung up
in the stone gallery ; go fetch them, Jacques;
we will have them dressed."

The count now made enquiry concerning
the method of pursuing the chace among
the rocks and precipices of these romantic
regions, and was listening to a curious de-
tail, when 'a horn was sounded at the gate.
Blanche looked timidly at her father, who
continued to converse on the subject of the
cha-ce, but whose countenance was some-
what expressive of anxiety, and who often
turned his eyes towards that part of the hall
nearest the gate. The horn souifcled again,
and a loud halloo succeeded. " There are
some of our companions returned from their
day's labour," said a man, going lazily from
his seat towards the gate; and in a few
minutes two men appeared, each with a
gun over his shoulder and pistols in his
belt. " What cheer, my lads? what cheer r"
said they, as they approached. " What
luck ?" returned their companions : " have
you brought home your supper ? You shall
have none else."

" Hah ! who the devil have you brought
home ?" said they in bad Spanish, on per-
ceiving the count's party, are they from
France, or Spam ?— where dia you meet with
them .'"

" They met with us, and a merry meeting
too," replied his companion aloud in good
French. " This chevalier and his party had
lost their way, and asked a night's lodging
in the fort." The others made no reply,
but threw down a kind of knapsack, and
drew forth several brace of birds. The bag
sounded heavily as it fell to the ground, and
the glitter of some bright metal within
glanced on the eye of the count, who now
surveyed with a more enquiring look the
man that held the knapsack. He was a tall
robust figure, of a hard countenance, and
had short black hair curling on his neck.
Instead of the hunters' dress he wore a faded
military uniform ; sandals were laced on
his broad legs ; and a kiud of short trow-
sers hung from his waist. On his head he
wore a leathern cap, somewhat resembling
in shape an ancient Roman helmet ; but the
brows that scowled beneath it would have
characterised those of the barbarians who
conquered Rome, rather than those of a
Roman Soldier. The -count at length tur-
ned away his eyes, and remained silent and
thoughtful, till, again raising them, he per-
ceived a figure standing in an obscure part

THE MYSTERIES OF tJDOLPHO.

ft***

of the hall, fixed in attentive gaze on St.
Foix, who was conversing with Blanche, and
did not observe this; but the count, soon
after, saw the same man looking over the
shoulder of the soldier as attentively at
himself. He withdrew his eye when that of
the count met it, who felt mistrust gather-
ing fast upon his mind, but feared to betray
it in his countenance, and forcing his fea-
tures to assume a smile, addressed Blanche
on some indifferent subject. When he again
looked round, he perceived that the soldier
and his companion were gone.

The man who was called Jacques now
returned from the stone-gallery. "A fire
is lighted there," said he, " and the birds
are dressing ; the table too is spread there,
for that place is warmer than this"

His companions approved of the re
moval, and invited their guests to follow
to the gallery, of whom Blanche appeared
distressed and remained silent, and St. Foix
looked at the count, who said he preferred
the comfortable blaze of the fire he was then
near. The hunters, however, commended
the warmth of the other apartment, and
pressed his removal with such seeming-
courtesy, that the count, half doubting and
half fearful of betraying his doubts, con-
sented to go. The long and ruinous pas-
sages through which they went somewhat
daunted him ; but the thunder which now
burst in loud peals above, made it danger-
ous to quit this place of shelter, and he
forbore to provoke his conductors by shew-
ing that he distrusted them. The hunters
led the way with a lamp : the count and
St. Foix, who wished to please their
hosts by some instances of familiarity,
carried each a seat, and Blanche followed
with faultering steps. As she passed on,
part of her dress caught on a nail in the
wall, and while she stopped, somewhat
too scrupulously, to disengage it, the count,
who was talking to St. Foix, and neither
of whom observed the circumstance, fol-
lowed their conductor round an abrupt
angle of the passage, and Blanche was left
behind in darkness. The thunder prevent-
ed them from hearing her call, but liaving
disengaged her dress, she quickly followed,
as she thought the way they had taken. A
light that glimmered at a distance con-
firmed this belief ; and she proceeded
towards an open door' whence it issued,
conjecturing the room beyond to be the
stone gallery the men had spoken of.
Hearing voices as she advanced, she
paused within a few paces of the cham-
ber, that she might be certain whether
she was right, and from thence, by the
light of a lamp that hung from the ceil
ing, observed four men seated round a
table, over which they leaned in apparent
consultation. In one of them she dis-

tinguished the features of him whom she
had observed gazing at St. Foix with such
deep attention 5 and who was now speaking
in an earnest, though restrained voice, till
one of his companions seeming to oppose
him, they spoke together in a loud and
harsher tone. Blanche, alarmed by per-
ceiving that neither her father or St. Foix
were there, and terrified at the fierce coun-
tenances and manners of these men, was
turning hastily from the chamber to pur-
sue her search of the gallery, when she heard
one of the men say :

" Let all dispute end here. Who talks of
danger? Follow my advice, and there
will be none — secure tliem, and the rest are
an easy prey." Blanche, struck with these
words* paused a moment to hear more.
" There is nothing to be got by the. rest,"
said one of his companions, "I am never
for blood when I can help it — dispatch the
two others, and our business is done : the
rest may go."

"May they so?" exclaimed the first
rnffian with a tremendous oath — "What'
to tell how we have disposed of their
masters, and to send the king's troops
to drag us to the wheel ! You was always
a choice adviser — I warrant we have not
yet forgot St. Thomas's eve last year."

Blanche's heart now sunk with horror.
Her first impulse was to retreat from the
door, but when she would have gone,
her trembling frame refused to support
her, and, having tottered a few paces to
a more obscure part of the passage, she
was compelled to listen to the dreadful
councils of those, who, she was no longer
suffered. to doubt, were banditti. In the
next moment she heard the following
words : " Why, you would not mnrder the
whole gang?"

"I warrant our lives are as good as
their's," replied his comrade. " If we don't
kill them they will hang us : better they
should die than we be hanged."

" Better, better," cried his comrades.

"To commit murder is a hopeful way
of escaping the gallows!" said the first
ruffian — " many an honest fellow has run
his head into the noose that way though."
There was a pause of some moments,
during which they appeared to be con-
sidering.

"Confound those fellows," exclaimed
one of the robbers impatiently, " the> •
ought to have been here by this time ;
they will come back presently with the
old story, and no booty : if they wae
here, our business would be plain and
easy. I see we shall not be able to do
the business to-night, for our numbers
are not equal to the enemy, and in the
morning they will be for marching .off,
and how can we detain them without
force V*

3(K>

TOE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

" I have been thinking- of a scheme
that will do," said one of his comrades :
" if we can dispatch the two chevaliers
silently, it will be easy to master the
rest."

"That's a plausible scheme, in good
faith," said another with a smile of scorn
— " If I can eat my way through the
prison wall, I shall be at liberty ! — How
can we dispatch tbem silently /"

" By poison," replied his companions.

"Well said! that will do," said the
second ruffian ; " that will give a lingering
death too, and satisfy my revenge. These
barons shall take care how they again tempt
our vengeance."

" I knew the son the moment I saw him,"
said the man whom Blanche had observed
gazing on St. Foix, " though he does not
know me $ the father I had almost for-
gotten."

" Well, you may say what you will,"
said the third ruffian ; but I don't believe
he is the baron ; and 1 am as likely to
know as any of you, for I was one of them
that attacked him with our brave lads that
suffered."

"And was not I another?" said the first
ruffian ; " 1 tell you he is the Baron ; but
but what does it signify whether he is or
not ?- — shall we let all this booty go out
of our hands ? It is not often we have
such luck as this. While we run the
chance of the wheel for smuggling a
few pounds of tobacco, to cheat the
king's manufactory, and of breaking our
necks down the precipices in the chace
of our food ; and now and then *rob a
brother smuggler, or a straggling pilgrim,
of what scarcely repays us the powder we
fire at them; shall we let such a prize as
this go? Why they have enough about
them to keep us for "

" I am not for that, I am not for that,"
replied the third robber ; " let us make
the most of them : only, if this is the
baron, I should like to have a flash the
more at him, for the sake of our brave
comrades that he brought to the gal-
lows."

"Aye, aye, flash as much as you will,"
rejoined the first man, " but 1 tell you the
baron is a taller man."

" Confound your quibbling," said the
second ruffian, "shall we let them ^o
or not? If we stay here much longer,
they will take the hint, and march off with-
out our leave. JLet them be who they will,
they are rich or why all those servants ?
Did you see ihe ring he, whom you call the
baron, had on his finger ? — it was a dia-
mond ; but he has not got it on now : he
saw me looking at it, I warrant, and took
it off."

"Aye, and then there is the pit tuic }

did you see that > She has not taken that
off," observed the first ruffian, " it hang*
at her neck ; if it had not sparkled sc-
I should not have found it out, for it was
almost hid by her dress ; those are dia-
monds too, and a rare many of them
there must be to go round such a large pic
ture."

" But how are we to manage this busi-
ness ?" said the second ruffian, " let us
talk of that ; there is no fear of there
being booty enough, but how are we to
secure it ?"

"Aye, aye," said his comrades, "let us
talk of that, and remember no time is to be
lost."

" I am still for poison," observed the
third ; " but consider their number ;
why there are nine or ten of them, and
armed too ; when I saw so many at the
gate, I was not for letting them in, you
know, nor you either."

" 1 thought they might be some of our
enemies," replied the second ; " I did not
so much mind numbers."

" But you must mind them now," re-
joined his comrade, " or it will be worse
for you. We are not more than six,
and how can we master ten by open force ?
1 tell you we must give some of them a
dose, and the rest may then be managed."

" I'll tell you a better way," rejoined the
other impatiently ; "draw closer."

Blanche, who had listened to this con-
versation in an agony which it would he
impossible to describe, could no longer
distinguish what was said, for the ruffian*
now spoke in lowered voices ; but the hopes
that she might save her friends from the
plot, if she could find her way quickly
to them, suddenly reanimated her spirits,
and lent her strength enough to turn her
steps in search of the gallery. Terror,
however, and darkness, conspired again.st
her ; and, having moved a few van's,
the feeble light that issued from ihe
chamber no longer even contended with
the gloom, and her foot stumbling over a
step that crossed the passage, she fell to
the ground.

The noise startled the banditti, who
became suddenly silent, and then all rushed
to the passage, to examine whether any
person was there who might have over-
heard their councils. Blanche saw them ap-
proaching, and perceived their fierce and
eager looks : but before she could raise
herself, they discovered and seized her, and
as thev dragged her towards the chamber
they had quitted, her screams drew from
them horrible threatening*.

Having reached the room, they began to
consult what they should do with her.
" Let us first know what she has heard,"
said the chief robber. "How long have you

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

J01

been in the passage, lady, and what brought
you there ?"

" Let us first secure that picture," said
one of his comrades, approaching the
trembling Blanche. "Fair lady, by your
leave, that picture is mine ; come, surren-
der it, or I shall seize it."

Blanche entreating their niercy, im-
mediately gave up the immature, while
another of the ruffians fiercely interro-
gated her concerning what she had over-
heard of their conversation, when, her con-
fusion and terror too plainly telling what
her tongue feared to confess, the ruffians
looked expressively upon one another,
and two of them withdrew to a remote
part of the room, as if to consult further.

" These are diamonds, by St. Peter!" ex-
claimed the fellow, who had been examining
the miniature, " and here is a very pretty
picture too, faith j as handsome a young
chevalier as you would wish to see by a sum-
mer's sun. Lady, this is your spouse, I
warrant, for it is the spark that was in your
company just now."

Blanche, sinking with terror, conjured
him to have pity on her ; and, delivering
him her purse, promised to say nothing of
what had passed, if he would suffer her to
return to her friends.

He smiled ironically, and was going to
reply, when his attention was called off by
a distant noise \ and, while he listened, he
grasped the arm of Blanche more firmly, as
if he feared she would escape from him, and
she again shrieked for help.

The approaching sounds called the ruffians
from the other part of the chamber. " We
are betrayed," said they ; " but let us listen
a moment — perhaps it is only our comrades
come in from the mountains, and if so, our
work is sure. Listen !"

A distant discharge of shot confirmed this
supposition for a moment ; but in the next,
the former sounds drawing nearer, the clash-
ing of swords, mingled with the voices of
loud contention and with heavy groans, were
distinguished in the avenue leading to the
chamber. While the ruffians prepared their
arms, they heard themselves called by some
of their comrades afar off, and then a shrill
horn was sounded without the fortress, a
signal, it appeared, they too well under-
stood ; for three of them, leaving the Lady
Blanche to the care of the fourth, instantly
rushed from the chamber.

While Blanche, trembling and nearly
fainting, was supplicating for release, she
heard, amid the tumult that approached,
the voice of St. Foix ; and she had scarcely
renewed her shriek, when the door of the
room was thrown open, and he appeared,
much disfigured with blood, and pursued by
several ruffians. Blanche neither saw or
beard any more 3 her head swam, her sight

failed, and she became senseless in the arms
of the robber who had detained her.

When she recovered, she perceived, by the
gloomy light that trembled round her, that
she was in the same chamber ; but neither
the count, St. Foix, or any other person,
appeared, and she continued, for some time,
entirely still, and nearly in a state of stupe-
faction. . But the dreadful images of the
past returning, she endeavoured to raise
herself, that she might seek her friends ;
when a sullen groan at a little distance, re-
minded her of St. Foix, and of the condition
in which she had seen him enter this room ;
then, starting from the floor, by a sudden
effort of horror, she advanced to the place
whence the sound had proceeded, where a
body was lying stretched upon the pave-
ment, and where, by the glimmering light
of a lamp, she discovered the pale and dis-
figured countenance of St. Foix. Her horrors
at that moment may be easily imagined. —
He was speechless ; his eyes were half
closed ; and on the hand which she grasped
in the agony of despair cold damps had
settled. While she vainly repeated his
name, and called for assistance, steps ap-
proached, and a person entered the cham-
ber, who she soon perceived was not the
count, her father ; but what was her asto-
nishment when, supplicating him to give his
assistance to St. Foix, she discovered Ludo-
vico ! He scarcely paused to recognise her,
but immediately bound up the wounds of
the chevalier, and, perceiving that he had
fainted probably from loss of blood, ran for
water : but he had been absent only a few
moments when Blanche heard other steps
approaching; and while she was almost
frantic with apprehension of the ruffians,
trie light of a torch flashed upon the walls,
and then Count de Villefort appeared, with
an affrighted countenance, and breathless
with impatience, calling upon his daughter.
At the sound of his voice she rose, and ran
to his arms, while he, letting fall the bloody
sword he held, pressed her to his bosom in
a transport of gratitude and joy, and then
hastily enquired for St. Foix, who now gave
some signs of life. Ludovico soon after re-
turning with water and brandy, the former
was applied to his lips, and the latter to his
temples and hands j and Blanche, at length,
saw him unclose his eyes, and then heard
him enquire for her ; but the joy she felt on
this occasion was interrupted by new alarms,
when Ludovico said it would be necessary
to remove Mons. St. Foix immediately, and
added, " The banditti that are out, my
lord, were expected home an hour ago, and
they will certainly find us if we delay.—
That shrill horn they know is never sounded
by their comrades but on most desperate
occasions, and it echoes among the moun
tains for many leagues round. I have

&9

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

known them brought home by its sound
even front the Pied de Melicaut. Is any
body standing watch at the great gate, my
lord ?"

« Nobody," replied the count 5 " the rest
of my people are now scattered about, I
scarcely know where. Go, Ludovico, col-
lect them together, and look out yourself,
and listen if you hear the feet of mules."

Ludovico then hurried away, and the
count consulted as to the means of removing
St. Foix, who could not have borne the mo-
tion of a mule, even if his strength would
have supported him in the saddle.

While the count was telling that the ban-
ditti, whom they had found in the fort, were
secured in the dungeon, Blanche observed
that he was himself wounded, and that his
left arm was entirely useless ; but he smiled
at her anxiety, assuring her the wound was
trifling.

The count's servants, except two who
kept watch at the gate, now appeared, and,
soon after, Ludovico. " I think I hear
mules coming along the glen, my lord,"
said he, " but the roaring of the torrent
below will not let me be certain 5 however,
£ have brought what will serve the cheva-
lier," he added, shewing a bear's skin fast-
ened to a couple of long poles, which had
been adapted for the purpose of bringing
home such of the banditti as happened to be
wounded in their encounters. Ludovico
spread it on the ground, and placing the
skins of several goats upon it, made a kind
of bed, into which the chevalier, who was,
however, now much revived, was gently
lifted •, and the poles being raised upon the
shoulders of the guides, whose footing among
these steeps could best be depended upon,
he was borne along with an easy motion.—
Some of the count's servants were also
wounded, but not materially ; and, their
wounds being bound up, they now followed
to the great gate. As they passed along
the hall, a loud tumult was heard at some
distance, and Blanche was terrified. " It
is only those villains in the dungeon, my
lady," said Ludovico. " They seem to be
bursting it open," said the count. " No,
my lord," replied Ludovico, " it has an iron
door ; we have nothing to fear from them ;
but let me go first, and look out from the
rampart."

They quickly followed him, and found
their mules browsing before the gates, where
the party listened anxiously, but heard no
sound, except that of the torrent below, and
of the early breeze sighing among the
branches of the old oak that grew in the
court ; and they were now glad to perceive
the first tints of dawn over the mountain
tops. When they had mounted their mules,
Ludovico, undertaking to be their guide,
tad wiem by an easier path than that by

which they had formerly ascended into the
glen. " We must avoid that valley to the
east, my lord," said he, " or we may meet
the banditti ; they went out that way in the
morning."

The travellers soon after quitted this glen,
and found themselves in a narrow valley
that stretched towards the north-west. The
morning light upon the mountains now
strengthened fast, and gradually discovered
the green hillocks that skirted the winding
feet of the cliffs, tufted with cork-tree and
ever-green oak. The thunder-clouds, being
dispersed, had left the sky perfectly serene,
and Blanche was revived by the fresh breeze,
and by the view of verdure which the late
rain had brightened. Soon after, the sun
arose, when the dripping rocks, with the
shrubs that fringed their summits, and many
a turfy slope below, sparkled in his rays. —
A wreath of mist was seen floating along the
extremity of the valley, but the gale bore it
before the travellers, and the sun-bearns
gradually drew it up towards the summit of
the mountains. They had proceeded about
a league, when St. Foix having complained
of extreme faint ness, they stopped to give
him refreshment, and that the men who bore
him might rest. Ludovico had brought
from the fort some flasks of rich Spanish
wine, which now proved a reviving cordial
not only to St. Foix, but to the whole party,
though to him it gave only a temporary re-
lief \ for it fed the fever that burned in his
veins, and he could neither disguise in his
countenance the anguish he suffered, or
suppress the wish that he was arrived at the
inn where they had designed to pass the
preceding night.

While they thus reposed themselves under
the shade of the dark green pines, the count
desired Ludovico to explain shortly by what
means he had disappeared from the north
apartment, how he came into the hands of
the banditti, and how he had contributed so
essentially to serve him and his family, for
to him he justly attributed their present de-
liverance. Ludovico was going to obey
him, when suddenly they heard the echo of
a pistol-shot from the way they had passed,
and they rose in alarm, hastily to pursue
their route.

CHAP. LI.

" Ah ! why did Fate his steps decoy
In stormy paths to roam,
Remote from all congenial joy!"

BEATTIJS.

Emily, meanwhile, was still suffering
anxiety as to the fate of Valancourt 5 but
Theresa, having at length found a person
whom she could entrust on her errand to the
steward, informed her that the messenger
would return on the following day, and

THE MYSTERIES OF (JUOI.PHO.

393

Emily promised to be at the cottage, The-
resa being too lame to attend her.

In the evening, therefore, Emily set out
alone for the cottage, with a melancholy
foreboding concerning Valancourt, while,
perhaps, the gloom of the hour might con-
tribute to depress her spirits. It was a grey
autumnal evening, towards the close of the
season ; heavy mists partially obscured the
mountains, and a chilling breeze that sighed
among the beech woods strewed her path .
with some of their - last yellow leaves.—
These, circling in the blast, and foretelling
the death of the year, gave an image of de-
solation to her mind, and, in her fancy,
seemed to announce the death of Valan-
court. Of this she had, indeed, more than
once so strong a presentiment, that she was
on the point of returning home, feeling
herself unequal to an encounter with the
certainty she anticipated ; but, contending
with her emotions, she so far commanded
them, as to be able to proceed.

While she walked mournfully on, gazing
on the long volumes of vapour that poured
upon the sky, and watching the swallows
tossed along the wind, now disappearing
among tempestuous clouds, and then emer-
ging, for a moment, in circles upon the
calmer air, the afflictions and vicissitudes of
her late life seemed pourtrayed in these
fleeting images: thus had she been tossed
upon the stormy sea of misfortune for the
last year, with but short intervals of peace,
if peace that could be called which was
only the delay of evils. And now, when she
had escaped from so many dangers, was be-
come independent of the will of those who
had oppressed her, and found herself mis-
tress of a large fortune ; now, when she
might reasonably have expected happiness,
she perceived that she was as distant from it
as ever. She would have accused herself
of weakness and ingratitude in thus suffer-
ing a sense of the various blessings she pos-
sessed to be overcome by that of a single
misfortune, had this misfortune affected
herself alone ; but when she had wept for
Valancourt even as living, tears of compas-
sion had mingled with those of regret, and
while she lamented a human being degraded
to vice, and consequently to misery, reason
and humanity claimed these tears, and for-
titude had not yet taught her to separate
them from those of love. In the present
moments, however, it was not the certainty
of his guilt, but the apprehension of his
death, (of a death, also, to which she her-
self, however innocently, appeared to have
been, in some degree, instrumental), that
oppressed her. This fear increased as the
means of certainty concerning it approached ;
and when she came within view of Theresa's
cottage, she was so much disordered, and
her resolution failed her so entirely, that,

unable to proceed, she rested on a bank be
side her path ; where, as she sat, the wind
that groaned sullenly among the lofty
branches above seemed to her melancholy
imagination to bear the sounds of distant
lamentation, and, in the pauses of the gust,
she still fancied she heard the feeble and
far-off notes of distress. Attention con-
vinced her that this was no more than fancy 5
but the increasing gloom, which seemed the
sudden close of day, soon warned her to de-
part, and, with faltering steps, she again
moved toward the cottage. Through the
casement appeared the cheerful blaze of a
wood fire 5 and Theresa, who had observed
Emily approaching, was already at the
door to receive her.

u It is a cold evening, madam," said she ;
" storms are coming on, and I thought you
would like a lire. Do take this chair by
the hearth."

Emily, thanking her for this considera-
tion, sat down, and then, looking in her
face, on which the wood-fire threw a gleam,
she was struck with its expression, and,
unable to speak, sunk back in her chair with
a countenance so full of woe, that Theresa
instantly comprehended the occasion of it,
but she remained silent. "Ah !" said Emily,
at length, " it is unnecessary for me to ask
the result of your enquiry — your silence,
and that look, sufficiently explain it : he is
dead!"

* Alas ! my dear young lady," replied
Theresa, while tears fi lied her eyes, " this
world is made up of trouble ; the rich
have their share as well as the poor. But
we must endeavour to bear what heaven
pleases."

" He is dead then !" interrupted Emily ;
w Valancourt is dead !"

" A-well-a-day ! I fear he is," replied
Theresa.

" You fear !" said Emily 5 " do you only
fear ?"

" Alas ! yes, madam, I fear he is. Nei-
ther the steward, or any of the*Epourville
family, have heard of him since he left
Languedoc, and the count is in great afflic-
tion about him, for he says he was always
punctual in writing, but that now he has
not received a line from him since he left
Languedoc. He appointed to be at home
three weeks ago, but he has neither come
or written, and they fear some accident has
befallen him. Alas ! that ever I should live
to cry for his death ! I am old, and might
have died without being missed ; but he-—"
EmHy was faint, and asked for some water ;
and Theresa, alarmed by the voice in which
she spoke, hastened to her assistance, and,
while she held the water to Emily's lips,
continued, ■ My dear young mistress, do
not take it so to heart ; the chevalier may
be alive and well, for all this: let us hone
the best."

304

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

" O no, I cannot hope P said Emily ; « I
am acquainted with circumstances that will
not suffer Hie to hope. I am somewhat
better now, and can hear what you have to
gay. Tell me, I entreat, the particulars of
what you know."

"•Stay till you are a little better, made-
moiselle, you look sadly."

« O no, Theresa, tell me all, while 1 have
the power to hear it," said Emily j " tell
me all, I conjure you."

" Well, madam, I will then ; but the
steward did not say much, for Richard says
he seemed shy of talking about Mons. Va-
lancourt ; and what he gathered was from
Gabriel, one of the servants, who said he
had heard it from my lord's gentleman;'
" What did he hear ?" said Emily.
"Why, madam, Richard has but a bad
memory, and could not remember half of it ;
and, if I had not asked him a great many
questions, I should have heard little indeed.
But he. says that Gabriel said, that he and
all the other servants were in great trouble
about M. Valancourt, for that he was such
a kind young gentleman, they all loved him
as well as if he had been their own brother

and now, to think what was become of him !

For he used to be so courteous to them all,
and if any of them had been in fault, M.
Valancourt was the first to persuade my lord
to forgive them. And then, if any poor fa-
mily was in distress, M. Valancourt was the
first, too, to relieve them, though some folks,
not a great way off, could have afforded that
muCh better than he. And then, said Gabriel,
he was so gentle to every body, and for all
he had such a noble look with him, he never
would command, and call about him, as some
of your quality people do, and we never
minded him the less for that. Nay, says
Gabriel, for that matter, we minded him the
more, and would all have run to obey him at
a word, sooner than if some folks had told
us what to do at full length ; aye, and were
more afraid of displeasing him, too, than of
them that used rough words to us."

Emily, who no longer considered it to be
dangerous to listen to praise bestowed on
Valancourt, did not attempt to interrupt
Theresa, but sat attentive to her words, though
almost overwhelmed with grief. " My Lord,"
continued Theresa, " frets about M. Valan-
court sadly •, and the more, because they say
he had been rather harsh against him lately.
Gabriel says that he had it from my load's
valet, that M. Valancourt had comported
himself wildly at Paris, and had spent a great
deal of money, more a great deal than my
lord liked, for he loves money better than
M. Valancourt, who had been led astray
sadly. Nay, for that matter, M. Valancourt
had been put into prison at Paris, and my
lord, says Gabriel, refused to take him out,
and said he deserved to suffer j and, when

old Gregoire, the butler, heard of this, he ac-
tually bought a walking-stick to take with
him to Paris, to visit his young master ; but
the next thing we hear is, that M. Valancourt
is coming home. O, it was a joyful day when
he came ! but he, was sadly altered, and my
lord looked very cool upon him, and he was
very sad, indeed. And, soon after, he went
away again into Languedoc, and since that
time we have never seen him."

Theresa paused, and Emily, sighing deep-
ly, remained with her eyes fixed upon the
floor without speaking. After a long pause,
she enquired what further Theresa had heard.
" Yet why should 1 ask ?" she added ; " what
you have already told is too much. O Valan-
court ! thou art gone— for ever gone ! and I
— I have murdered thee !" These words, and
the countenance of despair which accompa
nied them, alarmed Theresa, who began to
fear that the shock of the intelligence Emily
had just received had affected her senses.
" My dear young lady, be composed," said
she, " and do not say such frightful words.
You murder M. Valancourt — dear heart P
Emily replied only by a heavy sigh.

"Dear Italy, it breaks my heart to see
you look so," said Theresa ; " do not sit
with your eyes upon the ground, and all so
pale and melancholy ; it frightens me to see
you." Emily was still silent, and did not
appear to hear any thing that was said
to her. " Besides, mademoiselle," con-
tinued Theresa, " M. Valancourt may be
alive and merry yet, for what we know."

At the mention of his name, Emily raised
her eyes, and fixed them in a wild gaze
upon Theresa, as if she was endeavouring to
understand what had been said. " Aye,
my dear lady," said Theresa, mistaking the
meaning of this considerate air, " M. Valan-
court may be alive and merry yet "

On the repetition of these words, Emily
comprehended their import, but instead of
producing the effect intended, they seemed
only to heighten her distress. She rose
hastily from her chair, paced the little
room with quick steps, and often sighing
deeply, clasped her hands, and shuddered.

Meanwhile, Theresa, with simple but
honest affection, endeavoured to comfort
her •, put more wood on the fire, stirred
it up into a brighter blaze, swept the hearth,
set the chair, which Emily had left, in a
warmer situation, aud then drew forth from
a cupboard a flask of wine. " It is a
stormy night, madam," said she, " and
blows cold — do come nearer the fire, and
take a glass of this wine : it will comfort
you, as it has done me often and often,
for it is not such wine as one gets every
day ; it is rich Languedoc, and the last of
six flasks that M. Valancourt seut me the
night before he left Gascony for Paris.
They have served me ever since as cordials j

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

305

and 1 never drink it but I think of him, and
what kind words he said to me when he
gave them. Theresa, says he, you are not
young now, and should have a glass of good
wine now and then. I will send you a few
flasks ; and when you taste them, you will
sometimes remember me, your friend. Yes,
those were his very words — me, your
friend !" Emily still paced the room, with-
out seeming to hear what Theresa said, who
continued speaking : " And I have remem-
bered him often enough, poor young gen-
tleman!— for he gave me this roof for a
shelter, and that which has supported me.
Ah ! he is in heaven with my blessed mas-
ter, if ever saint was !"

Theresa's voice faltered ; she wept, and
set down the flask, unable to pour out the
wine. Her grief seemed to recall Emily
from her own, who went towards her, but
then stopped ; and, having gazed on her for
a moment, turned suddenly away, as if
overwhelmed by the reflection that it was
Valancourt whom Theresa lamented.

While she yet paced the room, the still
soft note of an oboe, or flute, was heard
mingling with the blast, the sweetnevss of
which affected Emily's spirits. She paused
a moment in attention : the tender tones,
as they swelled along the wind, till they
were lost again in the ruder gust, came with
a plaintiveness that touched her heart, and
she melted into tears.

" Aye," said Theresa, drying her eyes,
u there is Richard, our neighbour's son,
playing on the oboe ; it is sad enough to
hear such sweet music now." Emily con-
tinued to weep without replying. " He
often plays of an evening," added Theresa,
** and sometimes the young folks dance to
the sound of his oboe. But, dear young
lady ! do not cry so ; and pray take a glass
of this wine," continued she, pouring some
into a glass, and handing it to Emily, who
reluctantly took it.

"Taste it for M. Valancourt's sake,"
6aid Theresa, as Emily lifted the glass to
her lips, " for he gave it me, you know,
madam." Emily's hand trembled, and she
spilt the wine as she withdrew it from her
lips. " For whose sake ! — who gave the
wine?" said she, in a faltering voice.—
" M . Valancourt, dear lady. I knew you
would be pleased with it. It is the last
flask I have left."

Emily set the wine upon the table, and
burst into tears, while Theresa, disap-
pointed and alarmed, tried to comfort her 5
but she only waved her hand, entreated she
might be left alone, and wept the more.

A knock at the cottage door prevented
Theresa from immediately obeying her mis-
tress, and she was going to open it, when
Emily, checking her, requested she would
not admit any person 5 but afterwards re-
X

collecting that she had ordered her servant
to attend her home, she said it was only
Philippe, and endeavoured to restrain her
tears, while Theresa opened the door.

A voice that spoke without drew Emily's
attention. She listened, turned her eyes to
the door, when a person now appeared, and
immediately a bright gleam that flashed
from the fire discovered — Valancourt !

Emily, on perceiving him, started from
her chair, trembled, and sinking into it
again, became insensible to all around her.

A scream from Theresa now told that she
knew Valancourt, whom her imperfect sight
and the duskiness of the place had prevented
her from immediately recollecting ; but his
attention was immediately called from her
to the person whom he saw falling from a
chair near the fire ; and, hastening to her
assistance, he perceived that he was sup-
porting Emily ! The various emotions that
seized him upon thus unexpectedly meeting
with her, from whom he had believed he
had parted for ever, and on beholding her
pale and lifeless in his arms, may, perhaps,
be imagined, though they could neither be
then expressed or now described, any more
than Emily's sensations, when, at length,
she unclosed her eyes, and, looking up,
again saw Valancourt. The intense anxiety
with which he regarded her was instantly
changed to an expression of mingled joy
and tenderness as his eye met her's, and he
perceived that she was reviving. But he
could only exclaim " Emily !" as he silently
watched her recovery, while she averted her
eye, and feebly attempted to withdraw her
hand ; — but in these the first moments which
succeeded to the pangs his supposed death
had occasioned her, she forgot every fault
which had formerly claimed indignation;
and, beholding Valancourt such as he ap-
peared when he won her early affection, she
experienced emotions of only tenderness and
joy. This, alas ! was but the sunshine of a
few short moments ; recollections rose like
clouds upon her mind, and darkened the
illusive image that possessed it : she again
beheld Valancourt degraded — Valancourt
unworthy the esteem and tenderness she had
once bestowed upon him. Her spirits fal-
tered, and, withdrawing her hand, she turned
from him to conceal her grief, while he, yet
more embarrassed and agitated, remained
silent.

A sense of what she owed to herself re-
strained her tears, and taught her soon to
overcome, in some degree, the emotions ol
mingled joy and sorrow that contended at
her heart as she rose ; and, having thanked
him for the assistance he had given her
bade Theresa good evening. As she was
leaving the cottage, Valancourt, who seemed
suddenly awakened as from a dream, en-
treated, in a voice that pleaded powerfully

30(3

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

fnr compassion, a few moments attention.
Emily's heart, perhaps, pleaded as power-
fully i but she had resolution enough to
resist both, together with the clamorous en-
treaties of Theresa, that she would not ven-
ture home alone in the dark ; and had al-
ready opened the cottage door, when the
pelting storm compelled her to obey their
requests.

Silent and embarrassed, she returned to
the fire j while Valancourt, with increasing
agitation, paced the room, as if he wished,
yet feared, to speak, and Theresa expressed
without restraint her joy and wonder upon
seeing him.

" Dear heart, sir," said she, " I never
was so surprised and overjoyed in my life.
We were in great tribulation before you
came, for we thought you was dead, and
were talking and lamenting about you just
when you knocked at the door. My young
mistress there was crying fit to break her
heart—"

Emily looked with much displeasure at
Theresa, but before she could speak, Valan-
court, unable to repress the emotion which
Theresa's imprudent discovery occasioned,
exclaimed, " O my Emily ! am 1 then still
dear to you ! Did you, indeed, honour me
with a thought— a tear ? O heavens ! you
weep— you weep now !"

"Theresa, sir," said Emily, with a re-
served air, and trying to conquer her tears,
" has reason to remember you with grati-
tude, and she was concerned because she
had not lately heard of you. Allow me to
thank you for the kindness you have shewn
her, and to say, that since I am now upon
the spot, she must not be further indebted
to you."

" Emily !" said Valancourt, no longer
master of his emotions, " is it thus you meet
him whom once you meant to honour with
your hand ?— thus you meet him who has
loved you, suffered for you ? Yet what do
I say? Pardon me, pardon me, Made-
moiselle St. Aubert, I know not what I
utter. I have no longer any claim upon
your remembrance — I have forfeited every
pretension to your esteem, your love. —
Yes ! let me not forget that I once possessed
your affections, though to know that 1 have
lost them is my severest affliction. Afflic-
tion do I call it ! — that is a term of mild-

Tiess

"Dear heart!" said Theresa, preventing
Emily from replying, " talk of once having
her affections ! Why, my dear young lady
loves you now better than she does any body
in the whole world, though she pretends to
deny it."

" This 19 insupportable," said Emily.—
" Theresa, you know not what you say.
Sir, if you respect my tranquillity, you will
spare me from the continuance of this dis-
tress."

" I do respect your tranquillity too much
voluntarily to interrupt it," replied Valan-
court, in whose bosom pride now contended
with tenderness, " and will not be a volun-
tary intruder. I would have entreated a
few moments attention — yet 1 know not for
what purpose. You have ceased to rsteem
me, and to recount to you my sufferings
will degrade me more, without exciting even
your pity. Yet 1 have been, O Emily ! I
am, indeed, very wretched I" added Valan-
court, in a voice that softened from solem-
nity into grief.

" What! is my dear young master going
out in all this rain ?" said Theresa. " No,
he shall not stir a step. Dear ! dear ! to
see how gentlefolks can afford to throw
away their happiness ! Now, if you were
poor people, there would be none of this.
To talk of unworthiness, and not caring
about one another, when I know there are
not such a kind-hearted lady and gentleman
in the whole province, nor any that love
one another half so well, if the truth was
spoken !"

Emily, in extreme vexation, now rose from
her chair. " I must be gone," said she j
" the storm is over."

"Stay, Emily! stay, Mademoiselle St.
Aubert!" said Valancourt, summoning all
his resolution; " I will no longer distress
you by my presence. Forgive me that 1
did not sooner, obey you, and, if you can,
sometimes pity one, who, in losing you,
has lost all hope of peace! May you be
happy, Emily, however wretched I remain ;
happy as my fondest wish would have you !"

His voice faltered with the last words,
and his countenance changed, while, with
a look of ineffable tenderness and grief, he
gazed upon her for an instant, and then
quitted the cottage.

" Dear heart-! dear heart !" cried Theresa,
following him to the door, " why, Monsieur
Valancourt ! how it rains ! — what a night is
this to turn him out in! Why, it will give
him his death -, and it was but now you was
crying, mademoiselle, because he was dead.
Well ! young ladies do change their mind in
a minute, as one may say."

Emily made no reply, for she heard not
what was said, while, lost in sorrow and
thought, she remained in her chair by the
fire, with her eyes fixed, and the image of
Valancourt still before them.

u M. Valancourt is sadly altered, madam,"
said Theresa ; " he looks so thin to what he
used to do, and so melancholy, and then he
wears his arm in a sling."

Emily raised her eyes at these words, for
she had not observed this last circumstance ;
and she now did not doubt that Valancourt
had received the shot of her gardener at
Thoulouse. With this conviction, her pity
for him returning, she blamed herself for

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

30?

Having occasioned . him to leave the cottage
during the storm.

Soon after, her servants arrived with the
carriage 5 and Emily, having censured The-
resa for her thoughtless conversation to Va-
lancourt, and strictly charging her never to
repeat any hints of the same kind to him,
withdrew to her home, thoughtful and dis-
consolate.

Meanwhile, Valancourt had returned to a
little inn of the village, whither he had ar-
rived only a few moments before his visit to
Theresa's cottage, on the way from Thou-
louse to the chateau of the Count de Du-
varney, where he had not been since he bade
adieu to Emily at Chateau-le-Blanc, in the
neighbourhood of which he had lingered for
a considerable time, unable to summon re-
solution enough to quit a place that con-
tained the object most dear to his heart.
There were times, indeed, when grief and de-
spair urged him to appear again before
Emily, and, regardless of his ruined circum-
stances, to renew his suit. Pride, however,
and the tenderness of his affection, which
could not long endure the thought of in-
volving her in his misfortunes, at length so
far triumphed over passion, that he relin-
quished this desperate design, and quitted
Chateau-le-Blanc. But still his fancy wan-
dered among the scenes which had witnessed
his early love 5 and, on his way to Gascony,
he stopped at Thoulouse, where he remained
when Emily arrived, concealing, yet in-
dulging, his melancholy in the gardens,
where he had formerly passed with her so
many happy hours 5 often recurring with
* vain regret to the evening before her depar-
ture for Italy, when she had so unexpectedly
met him on the terrace, and endeavouring
to recal to his memory every word and look
which had then charmed him, the arguments
he had employed to dissuade her from the
journey, and the tenderness of their last
farewell. In such melancholy recollections
he had been indulging, when Emily unex-
pectedly appeared to him on this very ter-
race, the evening after her arrival at Thou-
louse. His emotions, on thus seeing her,
can scarcely be imagined ; but he so far
overcame the first promptings of love, that
he forbore to discover himself, and abruptly
quitted the gardens. Still, however, the
vision he had seen haunted his mind 5 he
became more wretched than before, and the
only solace of his sorrow was to return in
the silence of the night, to follow the paths
which he believed her steps had pressed
during the day, and to watch round the ha-
bitation where she reposed. It was in one
of these mournful wanderings that he had
received, by the fire of the gardener, who
mistook him for a robber, a wound in his
arm, which had detained him at Thoulouse,
till very lately, under the hands of a sur-

geon. There, regardless of himself, and
careless of his friends, whose late unkindness
had urged him to believe that they were in-
different as to his fate,~he remained, without
informing them of his situation ; and now,
being sufficiently recovered to bear travel
ling, he had taken La Vallee in his way to
Estuviere, the count's residence, partly for
the purpose of hearing of Emily, and of
being again near her, and partly for that of
enquiring into the situation of poor old
Theresa, who he had reason to suppose had
been deprived of her stipend, small as it
was, and which enquiry had brought him to
her cottage, . when Emily happened to be
there.

This unexpected interview, which had at
once shewn him the tenderness of her love
and the strength of her resolution, renewed
all the acuteness of the despair that had at-
tended their former separation, and which
no effort of reason could teach him, in the»e
moments, to subdue. Her image, her look,
the tones of her voice, all dwelt on his fancy
as powerfully as they had lately appeared
to his senses, and banished from his' heart
every emotion, except those of love and
despair.

Before the evening concluded, he returned
to Theresa's cottage, that he might hear her
talk of Emily, and be in the place where
she had so lately been. The joy felt and
expressed by that faithful servant was quickly
changed to sorrow, when she observed, at
one moment, his wild and frensied look, 3tid
at another the dark melancholy that over
hung him.

After he had listened, and for a conside
rable time, to all she had to relate concern
ing Emily, he gave Theresa nearly all the
money he had about him, though she re-
peatedly refused it, declaring that her mis-
tress had amply supplied her wants ; and
then, drawing a ring of value from his finger,
he delivered it her, with a solemn charge to
present it to Emily, of whom he entreated,
as a last favour, that she would preserve it
for his sake, and sometimes, when she looked
upon it, remember the unhappy giver.

Theresa wept as she received the ring,
but it was more from sympathy than from
any presentiment of evil • and before she
could reply, Valancourt abruptly left the
cottage. She followed him to the door,
calling upon his name, and entreating him
to return j but she received no answer, and
saw him no more.

CHAP. LII.

" Call up him, that left half told
The story 01 Cambuscan bold."

MILTON.

On the following morning, as Emily sat
in the parlour adjoining the library, reflect-
ing on the scene of the preceding night,

308

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

Annette rushed wildly into the room, and,
without speaking, sunk breathless into a
chair. U was some time before she could
answer the anxious enquiries of Emily, as to
the occasion of her emotion, but at length
she exclaimed, " I have seen his ghost, ma-
dam, I have seen his ghost !"

" Whom do you mean ?" said Emily, with
extreme impatience.

" It came in from the hall, madam," con-
tinued Annette, " as I was crossing to the
parlour."

" Whom are you speaking of?" repeated
Emily — " Who came in from the hall ?"

" It was dressed just has I have seen him,
often and often," added Annette. u Ah !
who could have thought ■ "

Emily's patience was now exhausted ; and
she was reprimanding her for such idle fan-
cies, when a servant entered the room, and
informed her, that a stranger without beg-
ged leave to speak with her.

It immediately occurred to Emily that
this stranger was Valancourt, and she told
the servant to inform him that she was en-
gaged, and could not see any person.

The servant having delivered his message,
returned with one from the stranger, urging
the first request, and saying that he had
something of consequence to communicate ;
while Annette, who had hitherto sat silent
and amazed, now started up, and crying,
" It is Ludovico !— - it is Ludovico !" ran out
of the room. Emily bade the servant follow
her, and, if it really was Ludovico, to shew
him into the parlour.

In a few minutes Ludovico appeared, ac-
companied by Annette, who, as joy rendered
her forgetful of all rules of decorum to-
wards her mistress, would not suffer any
person to be heard for some time but herself.
Emily expressed surprise and satisfaction
on seeing Ludovico in safety, and the first
emotions increased, when he delivered letters
from Count de Villefort and the Lady
Blanche, informing her of their late adven-
ture, and of their present situation at an inn
among the Pyrenees, where they had been
detained by Uie illness of Mons. St. Foix,
and the indisposition of Blanche, who added,
that the Baron St. Foix was just arrived to
attend his son to his chateau, where he
would remain till the perfect recovery of his
wounds, and then return to Languedoc, but
that her father and herself proposed to be at
La Vallee on the following day. She added,
that Emily's presence would be expected at
the approaching nuptials, and begged she
would be prepared to proceed in a few days
to Chateau-le-Blanc. For an account of
Ludovico's adventure she referred her to
himself j and Emily, though much interest-
ed concerning the means by which he had
disappeared from the north apartments, had
the forbearance to suspend the gratification

of her curiosity till he had taken some
refreshment, and had conversed with An-
nette, whose joy, on seeing him in safety,
could not have been more extravagant had
he arisen from the grave.

Meanwhile, Emily perused again the let
ters of her friends, whose expressions ot
esteem and kindness were very necessary
consolations to her heart, awakened as it
was by the late interview to emotions of
keener sorrow and regret.

The invitation to Chateau-le-Blanc was
pressed with so much kindness by the count
and his daughter who strengthened it by a
message from the countess, and the occasion
of it was so important to her friend, that Emily
could not refuse to accept it ; nor though she
wished to remain in the quiet shades of her
native home, could she avoid perceiving the
impropriety of remaining there alone, since
Valancourt was again in the neighbourhood.
Sometimes, too, she thought, that change of
scenery and the society of her friends might
contribute, more than retirement, to restore
her to tranquillity.

When Ludovico again appeared, she de-
sired him to give a detail of his adventure in
the north apartments, and to tell by what
means he became a companion of the ban-
ditti with whom the count had found him.

He immediately obeyed, while Annette,
who had not yet had leisure to ask him
many questions on the subject, prepared to
listen with a countenance of extreme curio-
sity, venturing to remind her lady of her in-
credulity concerning spirits in the castle of
Udolpho, and of her own sagacity in believ-
ing in them ; while Emily, blushing at the
consciousness of her late credulity, observed,
that if Ludovico's adventure could justify
Annette's superstition, he had probably not
been here to relate it.

Ludovico smiled at Annette, and bowed
to Emily, and then began as follows :

" You may remember, madam, that on
the night when I sat up in the north cham-
ber, my lord the count and Mons. Henri ac-
companied me thither, and that while they
remained there nothing happened to excite
any alarm. When they were gone I made a
fire in the bed-room, and not being inclined
to sleep, I sat down on the hearth with a
book I had brought with me to divert my
mind. I confess I did sometimes look round
the chamber with something like apprehen-
sion "

" O very like it, I dare say," interrupted
Annette ; " and I dare say too, if the truth
was known, you shook from hea«d to foot."
w Not quite so bad as that," replied Ludo-
vico, smiling, " but several times, as the
wind whistled round the castle and shook
the old casements, I did fancy I heard odd
noises, and, once or twice, I got up and
looked about me , but nothing was to be

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLl'HO.

3M

seen except the grim figures in the tapestry,
which seemed to frown upon me as 1 looked
at them. I had sat thus for above an hour,"
continued Ludovico, " when again I thought
I heard a noise, and glanced my eyes round
the room to discover what it came from,
but, not perceiving any thing, I began to
read again, and when I had finished the
story I was upon, I felt drowsy and dropped
asleep. But presently I was awakened by
the noise I had heard before, and it seemed
to come from that part of the chamber
where the bed stood ; and then, whether it
was the story I had been reading that affect-
ed my spirits, or the strange reports that had
been spread of these apartments, I don't
know, but when I looked towards the bed
again, I fancied I saw a man's face within
the dusky curtains."

At the mention of this Emily trembled
and looked anxiously, remembering the
spectacle she had herself witnessed there
with Dorothee.

" I confess, madam, my heart did fail me
at that instant," continued Ludovico ; " but
a return of the noise drew my attention from
the bed, and I then distinctly heard a sound
like that of a key turning in a lock, but
what surprised me more, was, that 1 saw no
door where the sound seemed to come from.
In the next moment, however, the arras
near the bed was slowly lifted, and a person
appeared behind it, entering from a small
door in the wall. He stood for a moment as
if half retreating, with his head bending un-
der the arras, which concealed the upper
part of his face, except his eyes scowling be-
neath the tapestry as he held it; and then,
while he raised it higher, I saw the face of
another man behind him looking over his
shoulder. I know not how it was, but,
though my sword was upon the table before
me, 1 had not the power just then to seize it,
but sat quite still, watching them with my
eyes half shut, as if I was asleep. I suppose
they thought me so, and were debating
what they should do, for I heard them whis-
per, and they stood in the same posture for
the value of a minute, and then I thought I
perceived other faces in the duskiness be-
yond the door, and heard louder whispers."

" This door surprises me," said Emily,
" because I understood that the count had
caused the arras to be lifted and the walls
examined, suspecting that they might have
concealed a passage through which you had
departed."

" It does not appear so extraordinary to
me, madam," replied Ludovicof * that this
door should escape notice, because it was
formed in a narrow compartment which ap-
peared to be part of the outward wall, and,
if the count had not passed over it, he might
have thought it was useless to search for a
door where it seemed as if no passage conld

communicate with one; but the truth was,
that the passage was formed within the wall
itself. — But to return to the men whom I
saw obscurely beyond the door, and who did
not suffer me to remain long in suspense
concerning their design. They all rushec
into the room, and surrounded me, though
not before 1 had snatched up my sword to
defend myself. But what could one man
do against four ? They soon disarmed me,
and, having fastened my arms and gagged
my mouth, forced me through the private
door, leaving my sword upon the table, to
assist, as they said, those who should come
in the morning to look for me in fighting
against the ghosts. They then led me
through many narrow passages, cut, is I
fancied, in the walls, for I had never seen
them before, and down several flights of
steps, till we came to the vaults underneath
the castle ; and then opening a stone door,
which I should have taken for the wall itself,
we went through a long passage, and down
other steps cut in the solid rock, when ano-
ther door delivered us into a cave. After
turning and twining about for some time,
we reached the mouth of it, and I found
myself on the sea-beach at the foot of the
cliffs, with the chateau above. A boat was
in waiting, into which the ruffians got,
forcing me along with them, and we soon
reached a small vessel that was at anchor,
where other men appeared, when, setting
me aboard, two of the fellows who had
seized me followed, and the other two rowed
back to the shore while we set sail. I soon
found out what all this meant, and what was
the business of these men at the chateau,
We landed in Rousillon, and after lingering
several days about the shore, some of their
comrades came down from the mountains,
and carried me with them to the fort, where
I remained till my lord so unexpectedly
arrived, for they had taken good care to pre-
vent my running away, having blindfolded
me during the journey, and if they had not
done this, 1 think I never could have found
my road to any town through the wild
country we traversed. After 1 reached the
fort, I was watched like a prisoner, and never
suffered to go out without two or three
companions, and 1 became so weary of life
that I often wished to get rid of it."

" Well, but they let you talk," said An-
nette ; " they did not gag you after they got
you away from the chateau, so I don't see
what reason there was to be so very weary
of living ; to say nothing about the chance
you had of seeing me again."

Ludovico smiled, and Emily also, who en-
quired what was the motive of these men for
carrying him off.

" I soon found out, madam," resumed
Ludovico, " that they were pirates, who had,
during manv vears, secreted their spoil in

the vaults of the castle, which being so near
the sea suited their purpose well. To pre-
reut detection they had tried to have it be-
lieved that the chateau was haunted, and
having discovered the private way to the
north apartments, which had been shut up
ever since the death of the lady marchioness,
they easily succeeded. The housekeeper
and her husband, who were the only persons
that had inhabited the castle for some years,
were so terrified by the strange noises they
heard in the nights, that they would live
there no longer j a report soon went abroad,
that it was haunted ; and the whole country
believed this the more readily, I suppose,
because it had been said that the lady mar-
chioness had died in a strange way, and be-
cause my lord never would return to the
place afterwards."

« But why," said Emily, " were not these
pirates contented with the cave— why did
they think it necessary to deposit their spoil
in the castle V'

" The cave, madam," replied Ludovico,
w was open to any body, and their treasures
would not long have remained undiscovered
there, but in the vaults they were secure so
long as the report prevailed of their being
haunted. Thus then, . it appears, that they
brought at midnight the spoil they took on
the seas, and kept it till they had opportu-
nities of disposing of it to advantage. The
pirates were connected with Spanish smug-
glers and banditti who live among the wilds
of the Pyrenees, and carry on various kinds
of traffic, such as nobody would think of; and
with this desperate horde of banditti I re-

mained till my lord arrived. I shall never
forget what I felt when 1 first discovered
him — I almost gave him up for lost ! but I
knew that if I shewed myself, the banditti
would discover who he was, and probably
murder us all, to prevent their secret in
the chateau being detected. I therefore
kept out of my lord's sight, but had a strict
watch upon the ruffians, and determined, if
they offered him or his family violence, to
discover myself, and fight for our lives.
Soon after, I overheard some of them laying
a most diabolical plan for the murder and
plunder of the whole party, when I contrived
to speak to some of my lord's attendants,
telling them what was going forward, and we
consulted what was best to be done. Mean-
while, my lord, alarmed at the absence of the
Lady Blanche, demanded her, and the ruf-
fians having given some unsatisfactory an-
swer, my lord and Mons. Foix became furi-
ous ; so then we thought it a good time to
discover the plot ; and, rushing into the
chamber, I called out " Treachery !" — My
lord count, defend yourself!" His lordship
and the chevalier drew their swords directly,
and a hard battle we had, but we conquered
at last, as, madam, you are already informed
of by my lord. count."

" This is an extraordinary adventure," said
Emily, " and much praise is due, Ludovico, to
your prudence and intrepidity .There are some
circumstances, however, concerning the
north apartments, which still perplex me ;
but, perhaps, you may be able to explain
them. Did you ever hear the bauuitti relate
any thing extraordinary of these rooms?"

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

311

" No, madam, replied Ludovico, " I ne-
ver heard them speak about the rooms, ex-
cept to laugh at the credulity of the old
housekeeper, who once was very near catch-
ing one of the pirates j it was since the
count arrived at the chateau, he said, and
he laughed heartily as he related the trick
he had played oft'."

A blush overspread Emily's cheek, and
she impatiently desired Ludovico to explain
himself.

" Why, my lady," said he, as this fellow
was one night in the bed-room, he heard
somebody approaching through the next
apartment, and not having time to lift up
the arras, and unfasten the door, he hid him-
self in the bed just by. There he lay for
some time in as great a fright I suppose

" As you was in," interrupted Annette,
u when you sat up so boldly to watch by
yourself."

" Aye," said Ludovico, " in as great a
fright as he ever made any body else suffer :
and presently the housekeeper and some
other person came up to the bed, when he,
thinking they were going to examine it, be-
thought him, that his only chance of escap-
ing detection was by terrifying them ; so he
lifted up the counterpane j but that did not
do, till he raised his face above it, and then
they both set off, he said, as if they had seen
the devil ; and he got out of the rooms un-
discovered."

Emily could not forbear smiling at this
explanation of the deception which had
given her so much superstitious terror, and
was surprised that she could have suffered
herself to be thus alarmed, till she consider-
ed, that, when the mind has once begun to
yield to the weakness of superstition, trifles
impress it with the force of conviction.
Still, however, she remembered with awe the
mysterious music which had been heard at
midnight, near Chateau-le-Blanc, and she
asked Ludovico if he could give any expla-
nation of it ; but he could not.

" I only know, madam," he added, " that
it did not belong to the pirates ; for I have
heard them laugh about it, and say they
believed the devil was in league with them
there."

" Yes, I will answer for it he was," said
Annette, her countenance brightening 5 " I
was sure all along thai he or his spirits had
something to do with the north apartments,
and now you see, madam, I. am right at
last."

" It cannot be denied that his spirits were
very busy in that part of the chateau," re-
plied Emily, smiling. "But I am surprised,
Ludovico, that these pirates should persevere
in their schemes after the arrival of the
count ; what could they expect but certain
detection ?"

" I have reason to believe, madam,'* replied
Ludovico, " that it was their intention r.o
persevere no longer than was necessary for
the removal of the stores, which were depo-
sited in the vaults ; and it appeared that they
had been employed in doing so from within
a short period after the count's arrival j but
as they had only a few hours in the night for
this business, and were carrying on other
schemes at the same time, the vaults were
not above half emptied when they took me
away. They glorified exceedingly in this
opportunity of confirming the superstitious
reports that had been spread of the north
chambers, were careful to leave every thing
there as they had found it, the better to pro-
mote the deception, and frequently in their
jocose moods would laugh at the consterna-
tion which they believed the inhabitants of
the castle had suffered upon my disappear-
ing $ and it was to prevent the possibility of
my betraying, their secret, that they had re-
moved me to such a distance. From that
period they considered the chateau as nearly
their own 5 but 1 found from the discourse of
their comrades, that, though they were cau-
tious at first in showing their power there,
they had once very nearly betrayed them-
selves. Going, one night, as was their cus-
tom, to the north chambers to repeat the
noises that had occasioned such alarm among
the servants, they heard, as they were about
to unfasten the secret-door, voices in the
bed-room. My lord has since told me that
himself and M. Henri were then in the apart-
ment, and they heard very extraordinary
sounds of lamentation, which it seems were
made by these fellows, with their usual de-
sign of spreading terror ; and my lord has
owned he then felt somewhat more than sur-
prise ; but as it was necessary to the peace
of his family that no notice should be taken,
he was silent on the subject, and enjoined
silence to his son."

Emily, recollecting the change that had
appeared in the spirits of the count, after the
night when he had watched in the north
room, now perceived the cause of it 5 and,
having made some further enquiries upon
this strange affair, she dismissed Ludovico,
and went to give orders for the accommoda-
tion of her friends on the following day.

In the evening, Theresa, lame as she was,
came to deliver the ring- with which Valan
court had entrusted her ; and when she pre-
sented it, Emily was much affected, tor she
remembered to have seen him wear it often
in happier days. She was, however, much
displeased that Theresa had received it, and-
positively refused to accept it herself, though
to have done so would have afforded her a
melancholy pleasure. Theresa entreated,
expostulated, and then described the distress
of Valaucourt when he had given the ring,
and repeated the message with whieh he had

3!1

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO,

commissioned her to deliver it ; and Emily
could not conceal the extreme sorrow this
recital occasioned her, but wept, and remain-
ed lost in thought.

" Alas ! my dear young lady !" said The-
resa, w why should all this be ? I have known
you from your infancy, and it may well be
supposed 1 love you as if you was my own,
and wish as much to see you happy. M. Va-
lancourt, to be sure I have not known so long*
but then I have reason to love him as though
he was my own son. I know how well you
love one another, or why all this weeping
and wailing? Emily waved her hand for
Theresa to be silent, who, disregarding the
signal, continued, " And how much you are
alike in your tempers and ways, and, that, if
you were married, you would be the happiest
couple in the whole province — then what is
there to prevent your marrying ? Dear,
dear ! to see how some people fling away
their happiness, and then cry and lament
about it, just as if it was not their own doing,
and as if there was more pleasure in wailing
and weeping, than in being at peace. Learn-
ing, to be sure, is a fine thing, but if it
teaches folks no better than that, why I had
rather be without it; if it would teach them
to be happier, I would say something to it :
then it would be learning and wisdom too."

Age and long services had given Theresa
a privilege to talk, but Emily now endea-
voured to check her loquacity, and though
she felt the justness of some of her remarks,
did not choose to explain the circumstances
that had determined her conduct towards
Valancourt. She therefore only told Theresa,
that it would much displease her to hear the
subject renewed; that she had reasons for
her conduct which 6hedid not think it proper
to mention, and that the ring must be re-
turned, with an assurance that she could not
accept it with propriety ; and, at the same
time, she forbade Theresa to repeat any fu-
ture message from Valancourt, as she valued
her esteem and kindness. Theresa was af-
flicted, and made another attempt, though
feeble, to interest her for Valancourt, but
the unusual displeasure expressed in Emily's
countenance, soon obliged her to desist, and
she departed in wonder and lamentation.

To relieve her mind, in some degree,
from the painful recollections that in-
truded upon it, Emily busied herself in
preparations for the journey into Langue-
doc, and, while Annette, who assisted her,
spoke with joy and affection of the safe re-
turn of Ludovico, she was considering how
she might best promote their happiness and
determined, if it appeared that his affection
was as unchanged as that of the simple and
honest Annette, to give her a marriage por-
tion, and settle them on some .part of her
estate. These considerations led her to the
remembrance of her father's paternal do-

main, which his affairs had formerly coiij.
pelled him to dispose of to M. Quesnel, and
which she frequently wished to regain, be-
cause St. Aubert had lamented that the chief
lands of his ancestors had passed into
another family, and because they had been
his birth-place and the haunt of his early
years. To the estate at Thoulouse she had
no peculiar attachment, and it was her
wish to dispose of this, lhat she might pur-
chase her paternal domains, if M. Quesnel
could be prevailed on to part with them,
which, as he talked much of living in Italy,
did not appear very improbable.

CHAP. LIIT.

"Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,
The btes' collected treasures sweet,
Sweet music's melting fall, — but sweeter yet,
The still, small voice of gratitude." GRAY.

On the following day, the arrival of her
friend revived the drooping Emily, and
La Vallee became once more the scene
of social kindness and of elegant hospi-
tality. Illness and the terror she had
Buffered had stolen from Blanche much
of her sprightliness, but all her affection-
ate simplicity remained, and though she
appeared less blooming, she was not less
engaging than before. The unfortunate
adventure on the Pyrenees had made the
count very anxious to reach home, and,
after little more than a week's stay at La
Vallee, Emily prepared to set out with her
friends for Languedoc, assigning the care
of her house, during her absence, to
Tlieresa. On the evening preceding her
departure, this old servant brought again
the ring of Valancourt, and, with tears,
entreated her mistress to receive it, for that
she had neither seen or neard of M. Valan-
court since the night when he delivered it
to her. As she said this, her countenance
expressed more alarm than she dared to
utter; but Emily, checking her own pro-
pensity to fear, considered that he had
probably returned to the residence of his
brother, and, again refusing to accept the
ring, bade Theresa preserve it till she saw
him, which, with extreme reluctance, she
promised to do.

On the following day, Count de Ville-
fort, with Emily and the Lady Blanche,
left La Vallee, and on the ensuing even-
ing arrived at the Chateau-le-Blanc, where
the Countess, Henri, and M. Du Pont,
whom Emily was surprised to find there,
received them with much joy and con-
gratulation. She was concerned to observe
that the count still encouraged the hopes
of his friend, whose countenance declared
that his affection had suffered no abatement
from absence ; and was much distressed
when, on the second evening after her ar-
rival, the count, having withdrawn her from

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPIIO.

313

the Lady Blanche, with whom she was
walking, renewed the subject of M. Du
Pout's hopes. The mildness with which
she listened to his intercourses at first,
deceiving him as to her sentiments, he
began to believe, that her affection for
Valancourt being overcome, she was, at
length, disposed to think favourably of
M. Du Pont ; and, when she afterwards
convinced him of his mistake, he ventured,
in the earnestness of his wish to promote
what he considered to be the happiness
of two persons whom he so much esteemed,
gently to remonstrate with her on thus
suffering an ill-placed affection to poison
the happiness of her most valuable years.

Observing her silence and the deep
dejection of her countenance, he concluded
with saying, " I will not say more now, but
I will still believe, my dear Mademoiselle
St. Aubert, that you will not always reject a
person so truly estimable as my friend
Du Pont/'

He spared her the pain of replying by
leaving her ; and she strolled on somewhat
displeased with the count for having per-
severed to plead for a suit which she had re-
peatedly rejected, and lost amidst the
melancholy recollections which this topic
had revived, till she had insensibly reached
the borders of the woods that screened the
monastery of St. Claire, when perceiving
how far she had wandered, she determined to
extend her walk a little further, and to en-
quire after the abbess and some of her
friends among the nuns.

Though the evening was now drawing to
a close, she accepted the invitation of the
friar, who opened the gate, and, anxious
to meet some of her old acquaintance,
proceeded towards the convent parlour.
As she crossed the lawn that sloped from
the front of the monastery towards the sea,
she was struck with the picture of repose
exhibited by some monks sitting in the
cloisters, which extended under the brow
of the woods that crowned this eminence ;
where, as they meditated at this twilight
hour holy subjects, they sometimes suffered
their attention to be relieved by the scene
before them, nor thought it profane to
look at nature, now that it had exchanged
the brilliant colours of day for the sober
hue of evening. Before the cloisters,
however, spread an ancient chesnut,
whose ample branches were designed to
screen the full magnificence of a scene
that might tempt the wish to worldly
pleasures •, but still, beneath the dark
and spreading foliage, gleamed a wide
extent of ocean, and many a passing
sail ; while, to the right and left, thick
woods were seen stretching along the
winding shores. So much as this had been
admitted, perhaps, to give to the secluded

votary an image of the dangers and vkis
situdes of life, and to console him now
that he had renounced its pleasures by the
certainty of having escaped its evil. As
Emily walked pensively along, considering
how much suffering she might have escaped
had she become a votress of the order, and
remained in this retirement from the time of
her father's death, the vesper-bell struck
up, and the monks retired slowly toward
the chapel, while she, pursuing her way,
entered the great hall, where an unusual
silence seemed to reign. The parlour
too, which opened from it, she found vacant,
but, as the evening bell was sounding, she
believed the nuns had withdrawn into the
chapel, and sat down to rest for a moment
before she returned to the chateau, where,
however, the increasing gloom made her now
anxious to be.

Not many minutes had elapsed, before
a nun entering in haste, enquired for the
abbess, and was retiring without recollect-
ing Emily, when she made herself known,
and then learned that a mass was going
to be performed for the soul of sister
Agnes, who had been declining for some
time, and who was now believed to be
dying.

Of her sufferings the sister gave a
melancholy account, and of the horrors
into which she had frequently started, but
which had now yielded to a dejection so
gloomy, that neither the prayers, in which
she was joined by the sisterhoood, or
the assurances of her confessor, had power
to recall her from it, or to cheer her
mind even with a momentary gleam of
comfort.

To this relation Emily listened with
extreme concern, and recollecting the
phrensied manners and the expressions of
horror which she had herself witnessed of
Agnes, together with the history that
sister Frances had communicated, her com-
passion was heightened to a very painful
degree. As the evening was already far
advanced, Emily did not now desire to see
her, or to join in the mass, and, after leav-
ing many kind remembrances with the
nun for her old friends, she quitted the
monastery, and returned over the cliffs
toward the chateau, meditating upon what
she had just heard, till at length she
forced her mind upon less interesting
subjects.

The wind was high, and as she drew
near the chateau, she often paused to listen
to its awful sounds as it swept over the
billows that beat below, or groaned along
the snrrounding woods; and while she
rested on a cliff at a short distance from
the chateau, and looked upon the wide
waters seen dimly beneath the last shade of
twilight, she thought of the following ad

314

Tllfc MYSTERIES OF UDOLFHO.

TO THE WINDS.

Viewless, through heavens vast vault your course
ye steer,
Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go !
Mysterious pow'rs ! I hear ye murmur low,
Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear,
And, awful • seems to say— some god is near !
I love to list your midnight voices float
In the dread storm, that o'er the ocean rolls,
And, while their charm the angry waves controuls,
Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote.
Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note,
The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail,
A sweeter note oft swells while sleeps the gale !
But soon, ye sightless pow( is ! your rest is o'er,
Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air,
Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy fear,
And the faint- warbled dirge— is heard no more !

Oh ! then I deprecate your awful reign !
The loud lament yet bear not on youi breath t
Bear not the crash of bark far on the main,
Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain.
The crew's dead chorus sinking into death '.
On ! give not these, ye pow'rs! I ask alone.
As wrapt I climb these dark romantic steeps.
The elemental war, the billow's moan ;
I ask the still, sweet tear, that listening Fancy
weeps.

CHAP. LIV.

" Unnatural deeds

Do breed unnatural troubles : infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
More needs she the divine than the physician."

MACBETH.

On the following evening, the view of
the convent towers rising among the
shadowy woods, reminded Emily of the
nun whose condition had so much affected
her ; and anxious to know how she was, as
as well as to see some of her former friends,
she and the Lady Blanche extended their
walk to the monastery. At the gate stood a
carriage, which, from the heat of the horses,
appeared to have just arrived ; but a more
than common stillness prevaded the court
and the cloisters through which Emily and
Blanche passed in their way to the great
hall, where a nun, who was crossing to the
staircase, replied to the enquiries of the
former, that sister Agnes was still living
and sensible, but that it was thought
she could not survive the night. In
the parlour they found several of the
boarders, who rejoiced to see Emily, and
told her many little circumstances that had
happened in the convent since her depar-
ture, and which were interesting to her
only because they related to persons whom
she had regarded with affection. While
they thus conversed, the abbess entered
the room, and expressed much satisfaction
at seeing Emily, but her manner was
unusually solemn, and her countenance de-
jected. " Our house," said she, after the
first salutations were over, " is truly a house
of mourning— a daughter is now paying the
debt of nature. — You have heard, perhaps,
that our daughter Agnes is dying ?"
Emily expressed her sincere concern.

w Here death presents to us a great and
awful lesson," continued the abbess j " let us
read it, and profit by it ; let it teach us to
prepare ourselves for the change that awaits
us all ! You are young, and have it yet in
your power to secure * the peace that passcth
all understanding' — the peace of conscience.
Preserve it in your youth that it may com-
fort vyou in age; for vain,, alas I and imper-
fect are the good deeds of our latter years,
if those of our early life have been evil !"

Emily would have said, that good deeds,
she hoped> were never vain ; but she con-
sidered that it was the abbess who spoke,
and she remained silent.

" The latter days of Agnes," resumed the
abbess, "have been exemplary; would they
might atone for the errors of her former
ones ! Her sufferings now, alas '. are great !
let us believe that the\ will make her peace
hereafter ! I have left her v ith her confessor,
and a gentleman whom she has long been
anxious to see, and who is just arrived from
Paris. They, I hope, will be able to admi-
nister the repose which her mind has hitherto
wanted."

Emily fervently joined in the wish.

" During her illness, she has sometimes
named you," resumed the abbess ; " perhaps
it would comfort her to see you ; when her
present visitors have left her, we will go to
her chamber, if the scene will not be too
melancholy for your spirits. But, indeed,
to such scenes, however painful, we ought
to accustom ourselves, for they are salutary
to the soul, and prepare us for what we are
ourselves to suffer."

Emily became grave and thoughtful ; for
this conversation brought to her recollection
the dying moments of her beloved father,
and she wished once more to weep over the
spot, where his remains were buried. During
the silence which followed the abbess's
speech; many minute circumstances attend-
ing his last hours occurred to her — his emo-
tion on perceiving himself to be in the
neighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc — his re-
quest to be interred in a particular spot in
the church of this monastery — and the
solemn charge he had delivered her to
destroy certain papers without examining
them.-— She recollected also the mysterious
and horrible words in those manuscripts,
upon which her eye had involuntarily
glanced ; and, though they now, and indeed
whenever she remembered them, revived an
excess of painful curiosity concerning their
full import and the motives for her father's
command, it was ever her chief consolation
that she had strictly obeyed him in this par-
ticular.

Little more was said by the abbess, who
appeared too much affected by the subject
she had lately left to be willing to converse,
and her companions had been for 6ome time

THE MYstERlES OF UDOLPHO.

3l.P>

silent from the same cause, when this general
reverie was interrupted by the entrauce of a
stranger, Monsieur Bonnac, who had just
quitted the chamber of sister Agnes. He
appeared much disturbed, but Emily fan-
cied that his countenance had more the ex-
pression of horror than of grief. Having
drawn the abbess to a distant part of the
loom, he conversed with her for some time,
during which she seemed to listen with
earnest attention, and he to speak with cau-
tion, and a more than common degree of
interest. When he had concluded, he bowed
silently to the rest of the company, and
quitted the room. The abbess, soon after,
proposed going to the chamber of sister
Agnes, to which Emily consented, though
not without some reluctance, and Lady
Blanche remained with the boarders below.

At the door of the chamber they met the
confessor, whom, as he lifted up his head on
their approach, Emily observed to be the
same that had attended her dying father ;
but he passed on without noticing her, and
they entered the apartment, where, on a
mattress, was laid sister Agnes, with one
nun watching in the chair beside her. Her
countenance was so much changed, that
Emily would scarcely have recollected her,
had she not been prepared to do so ; it was
ghastly, and overspread with gloomy horror ;
her dim and hollow eyes were fixed on a
crucifix, which she held upon her bosom 5
and she was so much engaged in thought, as
not to perceive the abbess and Emily till they
stood at the bed-side. Then, turning her
heavy eyes, she fixed them, in wild horror,
upon Emily j and, screaming, exclaimed,
"Ah! that vision comes upon me in my
dying hours !"

Emily started back in terror, and looked
for explanation to the abbess, who made her
a signal not to be alarmed, and calmly said
to Agnes, "Daughter, I have brought Made-
moiselle St. Aubert to visit you : I thought
you would be glad to see her."

Agnes made no reply ; but, still gazing
wildly upon Emily, exclaimed, " It is her
very self ! Oh ! there is all that fascination in
her look which proved my destruction ! What
would you have — what is it you come to de-
mand— Retribution? It will soon be

your's — it is your's already. How many
years have passed since last I saw you ! My
crime is but as yesterday.— Yet I am grown
old beneath it ; while you are still young
and blooming— blooming as when you forced
me to commit that most abhorred deed ! O !
could I once forget it ?— yet what would that
avail ?— the deed is done !"

Emily, extremely shocked, would now
have left the room 5 but the abbess, taking
her hand, tried to support her spirits, and
begged she would stay a few moment*,
when Ague.* would probably be calm, whuti

now she tried to soothe. But the latter
seemed to disregard her, while she still fixed
her eyes on Emily, and added, "What are
years of prayers and repentance ? they can-
not wash out the foulness of murder ! — Yes,
murder ! Where is he— where is he ? — look
there — look there; — see where he stalks
along the room ! Why do you come to tor-
ment me now ?" continued Agnes, while her
straining eyes were bent on air, " why was
not I punished before ? — O ! do not frown so
sternly! Hah! there again! 'tis she herself!
Why do you look so piteously upon me —
and smile, too ? smile on me ! What groan
was that?"

Agnes sunk down apparently lifeless, and
Emily, unable to support herself, leaned
against the bed, while the abbess and the at-
tendant nun were applying the usual reme
dies to Agnes. "Peace," said the abbess,
when Emily was going to speak, " the deli-
rium is going off; she will soon revive.
When was she thus before, daughter ?"

"Not of many weeks, madam," replied
the nun ; " but her spirits have been much
agitated by the arrival of the gentleman she
wished so much to see."

"Yes," observed the abbess, "that has
undoubtedly occasioned this paroxysm uf
phrensy. When she is better, we will leave
her to repose."

Emily very readily consented, but, though
she could now give little assistance, she was
unwilling to quit the chamber while any
might be necessary.

When Agnes recovered her senses, she
again fixed her eyes on Emily, but their wild
expression was gone, and a gloomy melan-
choly had succeeded. It was some moments
before she recovered sufficient spirits to
speak: she then said feebly— "The likeness
is wonderful !— surely it must be something
more than fancy. Tell me, I conjure \ou,"
she added, addressing Emily, " though your
name is St. Aubert, are you not the daughter
of the marchioness ?" " What marchioness V
said Emily, in extreme surprise ; for she had
imagined, from the calmness of Agnes**
manner, that her intellects were restored.
The abbess gave her a significant glance
but she repeated the question.

"What marchioness!" exclaimed Agnes,
"I know but of one — the Marchioness dc
Villeroi."

Emily, remembering the emotion of her
late father upon the unexpected mention of
this lady, and his request to be laid near tbfc
tomb of the Villeroi's, now felt greatly in
terestcd, and she entreated Agnes to explain
the reason of her question. The abbes*
would now have withdrawn Emily from, the
room, who being, however, detained by a
strong interest, repeated her entreaties.

" Bring me that casket, sister,** said
Agfise; t{ 1 will rhtm her to you 5 yet you

316

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

need only look at that mirror, and you will
behold her j you surely are her daughter:
such striking resemblance is neVer found but
among near relations."

The nun brought the casket, and Agnes
having directed her how to unlock it, she
took thence a miniature, in which Emily
perceived the exact resemblance of the pic-
ture which she had found among her late
father's papers. Agnes held out her hand to
receive it; gazed upon it earnestly for some
moments in silence \ and then, with a coun-
tenance of deep despair, threw up her eyes
to heaven, and prayed inwardly. When she
had finished, she returned the miniature to
Emily. "Keep it," said she, " I bequeath it
to you, for I must believe it is your right.
I have frequently observed the resemblance
between you \ but never, till this day, did it
strike upon my conscience so powerfully !
Stay, sister, do not remove the casket-
there is another picture I would shew."

Emily trembled with expectation, and the
abbes* again would have withdrawn her.
" Agnes is still disordered," said she, " you
observe how she wanders. In these moods
she says any thing, and does not scruple, as
you have witnessed, to accuse herself of the
most horrible crimes."

Emily, however, thought she perceived
something more than madness in the incon-
sistencies of Agnes, whose mention of the
marchioness, and production of her picture,
had interested her so much that she deter-
mined to obtain further information, if pos-
sible, respecting the subject of it.

The nun returned with the casket, and
Agnes pointing out to her a secret drawer,
she took from it another miniature. " Here,"
said Agnes, as she offered it to Emily,
"learn a lesson for your vanity, at least;
look well at this picture, and see if you can
discover any resemblance between what I was
and what I am."

Emily impatiently received the miniature,
which her eyes had scarcely glanced upon,
before her trembling hands had nearly suf-
fered it to fall — it was the resemblance of
the portrait of Signora Laurentini, which she
had formerly seen in the Castle of Udolpho—
the lady who had disappeared in so mys-
terious a manner, and whom Montoni had
been suspected of having caused to be mur-
dered.

In silent astonishment Emily continued to
gaze alternately upon the picture and the
dying nun, endeavouring to trace a resem-
blance between them, which no longer ex-
isted.

"Why do you look so sternly on me?"
said Agnes, mistaking the nature of Emily's
emotion.

" I have seen this face before," said
Emily, at length ; " was it really your
resemblance ?"

" You may well ask that question," replied
the nun—-" but it was once esteemed a stri-
king likeness of me. Look at me well, and
see what guilt has made me. I then was
innocent ; the evil passions of my nature
slept. Sister !" added she solemnly, and
stretching forth her cold damp hand to
Emily, who shuddered at its touch — " Sis-
ter ! beware of the first indulgence of the
passions ; beware of the first ! Theii course,
if not checked then, is rapid — their force is
uncontroulable — they lead us we know not
whither — they lead us perhaps to the com-
mission of crimes, for which whole years of
prayer and penitence cannot atone ! — Such
may be the force of even a single passion,
that it overcomes every other, and sears up
every other approach to the heart. Posses-
sing us like a fiend, it leads us on to the
acts of a fiend, making us insensible to pity
and to conscience. And, when its purpose
is accomplished, like a fiend, it leaves us to
the torture of those feelings which its power
had suspended — not annihilated — to the tor-
tures of compassion, remorse, and consci-
ence. Then, we awaken as from a dream,
and perceive a new world around us — we

faze in astonishment, and horror— but the
eed is committed ; not all the powers of
heaven and earth united can undo it — and
the spectres of conscience will not fly ! What
are riches — grandeur — health itself, — to the
luxury of a pure conscience, tfce health of the
soul ; — and what the sufferings of poverty,
disappointment, despair — to the anguish of
an afflicted one ! O ! how long is it since I
knew that luxury ! I believed that I had suf-
fered the most agonizing pangs of human
nature, in love, jealousy, and despair — but
these pangs were ease, compared with the
stings of conscience which I have since en-
dured. I tasted too what was called the
sweet of revenge — but it was transient, it
expired even with the object that provoked
it. Remember, sister, that the passions are
the seeds of vices as well as of virtues, from
which either may spring, accordingly as they
are nurtured. Unhappy they who have
never been taught the art to govern them !"

" Alas ! unhappy !" said the abbess, " and
ill-informed of our holy religion !" Emily
listened to Agnes, in silent awe, while she
still examined the miniature, and became
confirmed in her opinion of its strong resem-
blance to the portrait at Udolpho. " This
face is familiar to me," said she, wishing to
lead the nun to an explanation, yet fearing
to discover too abruptly her knowledge of
Udolpho.

" You are mistaken," replied Agnes, " you
certainly never saw that picture before."

" No," replied Emily, " but I have seen
one extremely like it." " Impossible," said
Agnes, who may now be called the Lady
Laurentini

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

317

° It was in the castle of Udolpho," con-
tinued Emily, looking stedfastly at her.

"Of Udolpho!" exclaimed Laurentini,
" of Udolpho in Italy!" " The same," replied
Emily.

" You know me then," said Laurentini,
" and you are the daughter of the marchi-
oness." Emily was somewhat surprised at
this abrupt assertion. " I am the daughter
of the late Mons. St. Aubert," said she, " and
the lady you name is an utter stranger to
me."

€% At least you believe so," rejoined Lau-
rentini.

Emily asked what reasons there could be
to believe otherwise.

u The family likeness that you bear her,"
said the nun. " The marchioness, it is
known, was attached to a gentleman of
Gascony, at the time when she accepted the
hand of the marquis, by the command of her
father. Ill-fated, unhappy woman !"

Emily, remembering the extreme emotion
which St. Aubert had betrayed on the men-
tion of the marchioness, would now have
suffered something more than surprise, had
her confidence in his integrity been less ; as
it was, she could not, for a moment, believe
what the words of Laurentini insinuated ;
yet she still felt strongly interested concern-
ing them, and begged that she would explain
them further.

" Do not urge me on that subject," said
the nun, "it is to me a terrible one ! Would
that I could blot it from my memory !" She
sighed deeply, and, after the pause of a
moment, asked Emily by what means she
had discovered her name ?

" By your portrait in the castle of Udol-
pho, to which this miniature bears a striking
resemblance," replied Emily.

" You have been at Udolpho, then !" said
the nun, with great emotion, " Alas! what
scenes does the mention of it revive in my
fancy — scenes of happiness — of suffering —
and of horror !"

At this moment the terrible spectacle
which Emily had witnessed in a chamber of
that castle occurred to her, and she shuddered
while she looked upon the nun— and recol-
lected her late words — that " years of prayer
and penitence could not wash out the foul-
ness of murder." She was now compelled
to attribute these to another cause, than that
of delirium. With a degree of horror, that
almost deprived her of sense, she now be-
lieved she looked upon a murderer. All the
recollected behaviour of Laurentini seemed
to confirm the supposition, yet Emily was
still lost in a labyrinth of perplexities, and,
not knowing how to ask the questions which
might lead to truth, she could only hint
them in broken sentences.

"Your sudden departure from Udolpho,"
—said she.

Laurentini groaned.

" The reports that followed it," continued
Emily — " The west chamber — the mourning
veil — -the object it conceals ! — when murders
are committed — "

The nun shrieked, " What ! there again !*
said she, endeavouring to raise herself, while
her starting eyes seemed to follow some ob-
ject round the room — " Come from the grave
— What ! Blood — blood too ! — There was no
blood — thou canst not say it !— Nay, do not
smile, — do not smile so piteously !"

Laurentini fell into convulsions as she
uttered the last words ; and Emily, unable
any longer to endure the horror of the scene,
hurried from the room, and sent some nuus
to the assistance of the abbess.

The Lady Blanche, and the boarders who
were in the parlour, now assembled round
Emily, and, alarmed by her manner and
affrighted countenance, asked a hundred
questions, which she avoided answering fur-
ther, than by saying, that she believed sister
Agnes was dying. They received this as a
sufficient explanation of her terror, and had
the leisure to offer restoratives, which, at
length, somewhat revived Emily, whose mind
was, however, so much shocked with terrible
surmises, and perplexed with doubts by some
words from the nun, that she was unable to
converse, and would have left the convent
immediately, had she not wished to know
whether Laurentini would survive the late
attack. - After waiting some time, she was
informed, that, the convulsions having
ceased, Laurentini seemed to be reviving,
and Emily and Blanche were departing, wheu
the abbess appeared, who, drawing the
former aside, said she had something of con-
sequence to say to her, but, as it was late,
she would not detain her then, and requested
to see her on the following day.

Emily promised to visit her, and, having
taken leave, returned with the Lady Blanche
towards the chateau, on the way to whieh
the deep gloom of the woods made Blanche
lament that the evening was so far advan-
ced j for the surrounding stillness and ob-
scurity rendered her sensible of fear, though
there was a servant to protect her; while
Emily was too much engaged by the horrors
of the scene she had just witnessed, to be
affected by the solemnity of the shades,
otherwise than as they served to promote
her gloomy reverie, from which, however,
she was at length recalled by the Lady
Blanche, who pointed out, at some dis-
tance, in the dusky path they were winding,
two persons slowly advancing. It was im-
possible to avoid them without striking into
a still more secluded part of the wood,
whither the strangers might easily follow ;
but all apprehensions vanished, when Emily
distinguished the voice of Mons. Du Pont,
and perceived that his companion was the

318

THE MYSTERIES OF UBOLPHO.

gentleman whom she had seen at the monas-
tery, and who was now conversing with so
much earnestness as not immediately to
perceive their approach. When Du Pont
joined the ladies, the stranger took leave,
and they proceeded to the chateau, where
the count, when he heard of Mons. Bonnac,
claimed him for an acquaintance, and, on
learning the melancholy occasion of his visit
to Languedoc, and that he was lodged at a
small inn in the village, begged the favour
of Monsieur Du Pont to invite him to the
chateau.

The latter was happy to do so, and the
scruples of reserve, which made M. Bonnac
hesitate to accept the invitation, being at
length overcome, they went to the chateau,
where the kindness of the count, and the
sprightliness of his son, were exerted to dis-
sipate the gloom that overhung the spirits
of the stranger. M. Bonnac was an officer
in the French service, and appeared to be
about fifty j his figure was tall and com-
manding, his manners had received the last
polish, and there was something in his
countenance uncommonly interesting ; for
over features, which, in youth, must have
been remarkably handsome, was spread a
melancholy, that seemed the effect of long
misfortune, rather than of constitution or
temper.

The conversation he held during supper
was evidently an effort of politeness, and
there were intervals in which, unable to
struggle against the feelings that depressed
him, he relapsed into silence and abstraction,
from which, however, the count sometimes
withdrew him in a manner so delicate and
benevolent, that Emily, while she observed
him, almost fancied she beheld her late
father.

The party separated at an early hour, and
then in the solitude of her apartment, the
scenes, which Emily had lately witnessed,
returned to her fancy with dreadful energy.
That in the dying nun she should have dis-
covered Signora Laurentini, who, instead of
having been murdered by Montoni, was, as
it now seemed, herself guilty of some dread-
ful crime, excited both horror and surprise
in a high degree j nor did the hints which
she had dropped respecting the marriage of
the Marchioness de Villeroi, and the enquiries
she had made concerning Emily's birth, occa-
sion her a less degree of interest, though it
was of a different nature.

The history which sister Frances had for-
merly related, and had said to be that of
Agnes, it now appeared, was erroneous j but
for what purpose it had been fabricated,
unless the more effectually to conceal the
true story, Emily could not even guess.
Above all, her interest was excited as to the
relation which the story of the late Marchi-
oness de Villeroi bore to that of her father -,

for, that some kind of relation existed be-
tween them, the grief of St. Aubert upon
hearing her name, his request to be buried
near her, and her picture which had been
found among his papers, certainly proved.
Sometimes it occurred to Emily, that he
might have been the lover to whom it was
said the marchioness was attached, when she*
was compelled to marry the Marquis de
Villeroi ; but that he had afterwards cherished
a passion for her, she could not suffer her-
self to believe for a moment. The papers
which he had so solemnly enjoined her to
destroy, she now fancied had related to this
connection, and she wished more earnestly
than before to know the reasons that made
him consider the injunction necessary, which,
had her faith in his principles been less,
would have led to believe, that there was a
mystery in her birth dishonourable to her
parents, which those manuscripts might
have revealed.

Reflections, similar to these, engaged her
mind during the greater part of the night j
and when, at length, she fell into a slumber,
it was only to behold a vision of the dying
nun, and to awaken in horrors like those she
had witnessed.

On the following morning she was too
much indisposed to attend her appointment
with the abbess, and before the day con-
cluded, she heard that sister Agnes was no
more. Mons. Bonnac received this intelli-
gence with concern ; but Emily observed,
that he did not appear so much affected
now, as on the preceding evening, immedi-
ately after quitting the apartment of the
nun, whose death was probably less terrible
to him, than the confession he had been then
called upon to witness. However this might
be, he was perhaps consoled, in some degree,
by the knowledge of the legacy bequeathed
him, since his family was large, and the ex-
travagance of some part of it had lately been
the means of involving him in great dis-
tress, and even in the horrors of a prison ;
and it was the grief he had suffered from
the wild career of a favourite son, with the
pecuniary anxieties and misfortunes conse-
quent upon it, that had given to his counte-
nance the air of dejection which had so
much interested Emily.

To his friend Mons. Du Pont he recited
some particulars of his late sufferings, when
it appeared that he had been confined for
several months in one of the prisons of Paris,
with little hope of release, and without the
comfort of seeing his wife, who had been ab-
sent in the country, endeavouring, though
in vain, to procure assistance from his
friends. When, at length, she had obtained
an order for admittance, she was so much
shocked at the change which long confine-
ment and sorrow had made in his appear-
ance, that she was seized with fits, which,

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

^19

*>y their long continuance, threatened her
life.

" Our situation affected those who hap-
pened to witness it," continued Mons. Bon-
nac ; " and one generous friend, who was in
confinement at the same time, afterwards
employed the first moments of his liberty in
efforts to obtain mine. He succeeded ; the
heavy debt that oppressed me was discharg-
ed ; and when I would have expressed my
sense of the obligation I had received, my
benefactor was fled from my search. I have
reason to believe he was the victim of his
own generosity, and that he returned to the
state of confinement from which he had re-
leased me : but every enquiry after him was
unsuccessful. Amiable and unfortunate Va-
laucourt !"

" Valancourt !" exclaimed Mons. Du Pont.
" Of what family ?"

" The Valancourts, Counts Duvarney,"
replied Mons. Bonnac.

The emotion of Mons. Du Pont, when he
discovered the generous benefactor of his
friend to be the rival of his love, can only
be imagined; but, having overcome his first
surprise, he dissipated the apprehensions of
Mons. Bonnac, by acquainting him, that
Valancourt was at liberty, and had lately
been at Languedoc ; after which, his affec-
tion for Emily prompted him to make some
enquiries respecting the conduct of his rival
during his stay at Paris, of which M. Bon-
nac appeared to be well informed. The an-
swers he received were such as convinced
him that Valancourt had been much misre-
presented, and, painful as was the sacrifice,
he formed the just design of relinquishing
his pursuit of Emily, to a lover, who, it
now appeared, was not unworthy of the re-
gard with which she honoured him.

The conversation of Mons. Bonnac dis-
covered that Valancourt, some time after his
arrival at Paris, had been drawn into the
snares which determined vice had spread for
him, and that his hours had been chiefly
divided between the parties of the captivat-
ing marchioness and those gaming assem-
blies, to which the envy or the avarice of
his brother officers had spared no art to
seduce him. In these parties he had lost
large sums in efforts to recover small ones,
and to such losses the Count de Villefort and
M. Henri had been frequent witnesses. His
resources were, at length, exhausted; and
the count, his brother, exasperated by his
conduct, refused to continue the supplies
necessary to his present mode of life, when
Valancourt, in consequence of accumulated
debts, was thrown into confinement, where
his brother suffered him to remain, in the
hope that punishment might effect a reform
of conduct which had not yet been confirmed
by long habit.

In the solitude of his prison, Valancourt

had leisure for reflection, and cause for re-
pentance; here, too, the image of Emily,
which, amidst the dissipation of the city,
had been obscured, but never obliterated
from his heart, revived, with all the charms
of innocence and beauty, to reproach him for
having sacrificed his lifippiness and debased
his talents by pursuits which his nobler fa-
culties would formerly have taught him to
consider were as tasteless as they were de-
grading. But though his passions had been
seduced, his heart was not depraved, nor
had habit rivetted the chains that hung hea-
vily on his conscience ; and, as he retained
that energy of will which was necessary to
burst them, he, at length, emancipated him-
self from the bondage of vice, but not till
after much effort and severe suffering.

Beingreleased byhis brother from the prison,
where he had witnessed the affecting meet-
ing between Mons. Bonnac and his wife, with
whom he had been for some time acquainted,
the first use of his liberty formed a striking
instance of his humanity and his rashness ;
for, with nearly all the money, just received
from his brother, he went to a gaming-house,
and gave it as a last stake for the chance of
restoring his friend to freedom, and to his
afflicted family. The event was fortunate,
and, while he had awaited the issue of this
momentous stake, he made a solemn vow
never again to yield to the destructive and
fascinating vice of gaining.

Having restored the venerable Mons. Bon-
nac to his rejoicing family, he hurried from
Paris to Estuviere ; and, in the delight of
having made the wretched happy, forgot,
for a while, his own misfortunes. Soon,
however, he remembered that he had thrown
away the fortune, without which he could
never hope to marry Emily; and life, unless
passed with her, now scarcely appeared sup-
portable; for her goodness, refinement, and
simplicity of heart, rendered her beauty
more enchanting, if possible, to his fancy,
than it had ever yet appeared. Experience
had taught him to understand the full value
of the qualities which he had before ad-
mired, but which the contrasted characters
he had seen in the world made him now
adore ; and these reflections, increasing the
pangs of remorse and regret, occasioned the
deep dejection that had accompanied him
even in the presence of Emily, of whom he
considered himself no longer worthy. To
the ignominy of having received pecuniary
obligations from the Marchioness Chamfort,
or any other lady of intrigue, as the Count
de Villefort had been informed, or of having
been engaged in the depredating schemes of
gamesters, Valancourt had never submitted ;
and these were some of such scandals as
often mingle with truth against the unfortu-
nate. Count de Villefort had received the n
from authority which he had no reason to

320

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

doubt, and which the imprudent conduct he
had himself witnessed in Valancourt, had
certainly induced him the more readily to
believe.- Being such as Emily could not
name to the chevalier, he had no opportu-
nity of refuting them •, and, when he con-
fessed himself to be unworthy of her esteem,
he little suspected that he was confirming
lo her the most dreadful calumnies. Thus
the mistake had been mutual, and had re-
mained so, when Mons. Bonnac explained
the conduct of his generous but imprudent
young friend to Du Pont, who, with severe
justice, determined not only to undeceive
the count on this subject, but to resign all
hope of Emily. Such a sacrifice as his love
rendered this, was deserving of a noble re-
ward, and Mons. Bonnac, if it had been pos-
sible for him to forget the benevolent Valan-
court, would have wished that Emily might
accept the just Du Pont.

When the count was informed of the error
he had committed, he was extremely shocked
at the consequence of his credulity ; and
the account which Mons. Bonnac gave of
his friend's situation while at Paris, con-
vinced him that Valancourt had been entrap-
ped by the schemes of a set of dissipated
young men, with whom his profession had
partly obliged him to associate, rather than
by an inclination to vice ; and, charmed by
the humanity and noble though rash genero-
sity which his conduct towards Mons. Bon.-
nac exhibited, he forgave him the transient
errors that had stained his youth, and re-
stored him to the high degree of esteem with
which he had regarded him during their early
acquaintance. But as the least reparation
he could now make Valancourt was to afford
him an opportunity of explaining to Emily
his former conduct, he immediately wrote,
to request his forgiveness of the uninten-
tional injury he had done him, and to invite
him to Chateau-le-Blanc. Motives of deli-
cacy withheld the count from informing
Emily of this letter, and of kindness from
acquainting her with the discovery respect-
ing Valancourt, till his arrival should save
her from the possibility of anxiety as to its
event ; and this precaution spared her even
severer inquietude than the count had fore-
seen, since he was ignorant of the symptoms
of despair which Valancourt's late conduct
had betrayed.

CHAP. LV.

44 But in these cases

We still have judgment here: that we but teach
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
To plague the inventor : thus even-handed Justice
Commends the ingredient* of our poisond chalice
To our own lips."

MACBETH.

Some circumstances of an extraordinary
nature now withdrew Emily from her own

sorrows, and excited emotions which partook
of both surprise and horror.

A few days following that on which Signora
Laurentini died, her will was opened at the
monastery, in the presence of the superiors
and Mons. Bonnac, when it was found that
one third of her personal property was be-
queathed to the nearest surviving relative of
the late Marchioness de Viileroi, and that
Emily was the person.

With the secret of Emily's family the
abbess had long been acquainted; and it
was in observance of the earnest request of
St. Aubert, who was known to the friar that
attended him on his death-bed, that his
daughter had remaiued in ignorance of her
relationship to the marchioness. But some
hints, which had fallen from Signora Lau-
rentini during her last interview with Emily,
and a confession of a very extraordinary na-
ture given in her dying hours, had made the
abbess think it necessary to converse with
her young friend on the topic she had not
before ventured to introduce; and it was
for this purpose that she had requested to
see her on the morning that followed her
interview with the nun. Emily's indisposi-
tion had then prevented the intended con-
versation ; but now, after the will had been
examined, she received a summons, which
she immediately obeyed, and became in-
formed of circumstances that powerfully
affected her. As the narrative of the abbess
was, however, deficient in many particulars,
of which the reader may wish to be inform-
ed, and the history of the nun is materially
connected with the fate of the Marchioness
de ViHeroi, we shall omit the conversation
that passed in the parlour of the convent,
and mingle with our relation a brief his-
tory of

LAURENTINI Dl UDOLPHO.

who was the only child of her parents, and
heiress of the ancient house of Udolpho, in
the territory of Venice. It was the first
misfortune of her life, and that which led to
all her succeeding misery, that the friends
who ought to have restrained her strong
passions, and mildly instructed her in the
art of governing them, nurtured them by
early indulgence. But they cherished their
own failings in her; for their conduct was
not the result of rational kindness; and
when they either indulged or opposed the
passions of their child, they gratified their
own. Thus they indulged her with weak-
ness, and reprehended her with violence ;
her spirit was exasperated by their vehe-
mence, instead of being corrected by their
wisdom ; and their oppositions became con-
tests for victory, in which the due tenderness
of the parents, and the affectionate duties of
the child, were equally forgotten; but as
returning fondness disarmed the parents*

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

resentment soonest, Laurentini was suffered
lo believe that she had conquered, and
her passions became stronger by every
effort that had been employed to subdue
them.

The death of her father and mother in
the same year left her to her own discretion,
under the dangerous circumstances attend-
ant on youth and beauty. She was fond of
company, delighted with admiration, yet
disdainful of the opinion of the world, when
it happened to contradict her inclinations ;
had a gay and brilliant wit, and was mis-
tress of all the arts of fascination. Her
conduct was such as might have been
expected from the weakness of her prin-
ciples, and the strength of her passions.

Among her numerous admirers was the
late Marquis de Villeroi, who, on his tour
through Italy, saw Laurentini at Venice,
where he usually resided, and became her
passionate adorer. Equally captivated by
the figure and accomplishments of the Mar-
quis, who was at that period one of the
most distinguished noblemen at the French
court, she had the art so effectually to con-
ceal from him the dangerous traits of her
character, and the blemishes of her late
conduct, that he solicited her hand in
marriage.

Before the nuptials were concluded, she
retired to the castle of Udolpho, whither the
Marquis followed, and where her couduct,
relaxing from the propriety which she had
lately assumed, discovered to him the preci-
pice on which he stood. A minuter en-
quiry than he had before thought it neces-
sary to make, convinced him that he had
been deceived in her character, and slie,
whom he had designed for his wife, after-
wards became his mistress.

Having passed some weeks at Udolpho,
he was called abruptly to France, whither
he returned with extreme reluctance, for
his heart was still fascinated by the arts of
Laurentini, with whom, however, he had, on
various pretences, delayed his marriage ;
but to reconcile her to this separation, he
now gave repeated promises of returning to
conclude the nuptials, as soon as the affair,
which thus suddenly called him to France,
should permit.

Soothed, in some degree, by these as-
surances, she suffered him to depart ; and,
soon after, her relative, Montoni, arriving
at Udolpho, renewed the addresses which
she had before refused, and which she now
again rejected Meanwhile, her thoughts
were constantly with the Marquis dc Villeroi,
for whom she suffered all the delirium of
Italian love, cherished by the solitude to
which she confined herself ; for she had now
lost all taste for the pleasures of society
and the gaiety of amusement. Her only
izvdulgencies were to sigh and weep over
Y

a miniature of the marquis ; to visit the
scenes that had witnessed their happiness ;
to pour forth her heart to him in writing,
and to count the weeks, the days, which
must intervene before the period that he
had mentioned as probable for his return.
But this period passed without bringing
him ; and week after week followed in
heavy and almost intolerable expectation.
During this interval, Laurent infs fancy,
occupied incessantly by one idea, became
disordered; and, her whole heart being
devoted to one object, life became hate-
ful to her, when she believed that object
lost.

Several months passed, during which she
heard nothing from the Marquis de Villeroi,
and her days were marked, at intervals, with
the frenzy of passion and the sullenness of de-
spair. She secluded herself from all visitors,
and sometimes remained in her apartment
for weeks together, refusing to speak t<»
every person, except her favourite female
attendant, writing scraps of letters, read-
ing again and again those she had received
from the marquis, weeping over his picture,
and speaking to it, for many hours, up-
braiding, reproaching, and caressing it
alternately.

At length, a report reached her that the
marquis had married in France, and after
suffering all the extremes of love, jealousy,
and indignation, she formed the desperate
resolution of going secretly to that country,
and, if the report proved true, of attempt-
ing a deep revenge. To her favourite wo-
man only she confided the plan of her
journey, and she engaged her to partake of
it. Having collected her jewels, which, de-
scending to her from many branches of her
family, were of immense value, and all her
cash, to a very large amount, they were j
packed in a trunk, which was privately con-
veyed to a neighbouring town, whither
Laurentini, with this only servant, followed,
and thence proceeded secretly to Leghorn,
where they embarked for France.

When, on her arrival in Languedoc, she
found that the marquis de Villeroi had been
married for some months, her despair al-
most deprived her of reason, and she alter-
nately projected and abandoned the horrible
design of murdering the Marquis, his wife,
and herself. At length she contrived to
throw herself in his way, with an intention
of reproaching him for his conduct, and of
stabbing herself in his presence ; but when
she again saw him, who so long had been
the constant object of her thoughts and
affections, resentment yielded to love ; her
resolution failed ; she trembled with th#
conflict of emotions that assailed her heart,
and fainted away.

The marquis was not proof against her
oesutv and sensibility ; all the energy with

32'i

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

trhich he had first loved returned, for his
passion had been resisted by prudence,
rather than overcome by indifference ; and
since the honour of his family would not
permit him to marry her, he had endea-
voured to subdue his love, and had so far
succeeded as to select the then marchioness
for bis wife, whom he loved at first with a
tempered and rational affection. But the
mild virtues of that amiable lady did not
.recompence him for her indifference, which
^appeared, notwithstanding her efforts to con-
ceal it ; and he had far some time suspected
that her affections were engaged by another
person, whenLaurentini arrived inLanguedoc.
This artful Italian soon perceived that she
had regained her influence over him, and>
soothed by the discovery, she determined
to live and to employ all her enchantments
to win his consent to the diabolical deed,
which she believed was necessary to the se-
curity of her happiness. She conducted her
:scheme with deep dissimulation and patient
perseverance, and, having completely es-
tranged the affections of the marquis from
.his wife, whose gentle goodness and unim-
passioned manners had ceased to please,
when contrasted with the captivations of
the Italian, she proceeded to awaken in his
mind the jealousy of pride, for it was no
longer that of love, and even pointed out
.to him the person to whom she affirmed the
marchioness had sacrificed her honour ; but
Laurentini had first extorted from him a
solemn promise to forbear avenging himself
upon his rival. This was an important part
of her plan, for she knew, that, if his desire
of vengeance was restrained towards one
party, it would burn more fiercely towards
the other, and he might then, perhaps, he
prevailed on to assist in the horrible act,
which would release him from the only
barrier that withheld him from making her
his wife.

The innocent marchioness, meanwhile,
observed, with extreme grief, the alteration
in her husband's manners. He became re-
seved and thoughtful in her presence, his
conduct was austere, and sometimes even
rude ; and he left her for many hours to-
gether to weep for his unkindness, and to
form plans for the recovery of his affection.
His conduct afflicted her the more, because,
in obedience to the command of her father,
she had accepted his hand, though her
affections were engaged to another, whose
amiable disposition she had reason to be-
lieve would have ensured her happiness. This
circumstance Laurentini had discovered
noon after her arrival in France, and had
made ample use of it in assisting her de-
signs upon the marquis, to whom she ad-
duced such seeming proof of his wife's in-
fidelity, that, in the frantic rage of wounded
ftooour, he consented to destroy his wife.

A slow poison was administered, and
she fell a victim to the jealousy and
subtlety of Laurentini, and to the guilty
weakness of her husband.

But the moment of Laurentini's tri-
umph, the moment to which she ha<l
looked forward for the completion of all
her wishes, proved only the commencement
of a suffering that never left her to her
dying hour.

The passion of revenge, which had in
part stimulated her to the commission of
this atrocious deed, died even at the moment
when it was gratified, and left her to the
horrors of unavailing pity and remorse,
which would probably | have empoisoned
all the years she had promised herself with
the Marquis de Villeroi, had her expecta-
tions of an alliance with him been realised.
But he, too, had found the moment of his
revenge to be that of remorse as to himself,
and detestation as to the partner of his
crime ; the feeling which he had mistaken
f -;r conviction, was no more ; and he stood
astonished and aghast, that no proof remained
of his wife's infidelity, now that she had
suffered the punishment of guilt. Even
when he was informed that she was dying,
he had felt suddenly and unaccountably re-
assured of her innocence 5 nor was the
solemn assurance she made him in her last
hour capable of affording him a stronger
conviction of her blameless conduct.

In the first horrors of remorse and despair
he felt inclined to deliver up himself, and
the woman who had plunged him into this
abyss of guilt, into the hands of justice j but
when the paroxysm of his suffering was
over, his intention changed, Laurentini,
however, he saw only once afterwards, and
that was, to curse her as the instigator of
his crime, and to say, that he spared her life
only on condition that she passed the rest
of her days in prayer and penance. Over-
whelmed with disappointment, on receiving
contempt and abhorrence from the man for
whose sake she had not scrupled to stain her
conscience with human blood, and touched
with horror of the unavailing crime she
had committed, she renounced the world,
and retired to the monastery of St. Claire, a
dreadful victim to unresisted passion.

The marquis, immediately after the
death of his wife, quitted Chateau-le-Blanc,
to which he never returned, and endeavoured
to lose the sense of his crime amidst the
tumult of war, or the dissipations of a
capital ; but his efforts were vain ; a deep
dejection hung over him ever after, for
which his most intimate friends could not
account, and he at length died, with a de-
gree of horror nearly equal to that which
Laurentini had suffered. The physician,
who ' had observed the singular appearance
of the unfortunate marchiones*aftrr death

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

353

had been bribed to silence ; and, as the sur-
mises of a few of the servants had pro-
ceeded no further than a whisper, the
affair had never been investigated. Whether
this whisper ever reached the father of the
marchioness, and if it did, whether, the
difficulty of obtaining proof deterred him
from prosecuting the Marquis de Villeroi,
is uncertain ; but her death was deeply
lamented by some part of her family, and
particularly by her brother, M. St. Aubert ;
for that was the degree of relationship
which had existed between Emily's father
and the marchioness ; and there is no doubt
that he suspected the manner of her death.
Many letters passed between the marquis
and him, soon after the decease of his
beloved sister, the subject of which was not
known, but there is reason to believe that
they related to the cause of her death ; and
these were the papers, together with some
letters ot the marchioness, who had confided
to her brother the occasion of her unhappi
ness, which St. Aubert had so solemnly en-
joined his daughter to destroy ; and anxiety
for her peace had propably made him for-
bid her to enquire into the melancholy
story to which they alluded. Such, indeed,
bad been his affliction on the premature
death of this his favourite sister, whose un-
happy marriage had from the first excited
his tenderest pity, that he never could hear
her named, or mention her himself after her
death, except to Madame St. Aubert. From
Emily, whose sensibility he feared to awaken,
he had so carefully concealed her history
and name, that she was ignorant, till now,
that she had such a relative as the Mar-
chioness de Villeroi ; and from this motive
he had enjoined silence to his only sur-
viving sister, Madame Cheron, who had
scrupulously observed his request.

It was over some of the last pathetic
letters of the marchioness, that St. Aubert
was weeping when he was observed by
Emily on the eve of her departure from La
Vallee, and it was her picture which he had
60 tenderly caressed. Her disastrous death
may account for the emotion he had be-
trayed on hearing her named by La Voisin,
and for his request to be interred near the
monument of the Villerois, where her re-
mains were deposited, but not those of her
husband, who was buried, where he died, in
the north of Fiance.

The confessor who attended St. Aubert
in his last moments, recollected him to be
the brother of the late marchioness, when
St. Aubert, from tenderness to Emily, had
conjured him to conceal the circumstance,
and to that the abbess, to whose care he
particularly recommended her, would do the
same; a request which had been exactly ob-
served.

Laurentini, on her arrival in France,
had carefully concealed her name and

family, and, the better to disguise her, real
history, had, on entering the convent^
caused the story to be circulated which had
imposed on sister Frances; and it is probable
that the abbess, who did not preside in the
convent at the time of her novication, was also
entirely ignorant of the truth. The deep re-
morse that seized on the mind of Laurentini,
together with the sufferings of disap-
pointed passion, for she still loved the
marquis, again unsettled her intellect*,
and, after the first paroxysms of despair
were passed, a heavy and silent melancholy
had settled upon her spirits, which suffered
few interruptions from fits of phrensy till
the time of her death. During many years,
it had been her only amusement to walk in
the woods near the monastery in the solitary
hours of night, and to play upon a favourite
instrument, to which she sometimes joined
the delightful melody of her voice in the
most solemn and melancholy airs of her
native country, modulated by all the ener-
getic feeling that dwelt in her heart. The
physician who had attended her, recom-
mended it to the superior to indulge her in
this whim, as the only means of soothing
her distempered fancy ; and she was suffered
to walk in the lonely hours of night, at-
tended by the servant who had accompanied
her from Italy; but as the indulgence trans-
gressed against the rules of the convent,
it was kept as secret as possible; and thus
the mysterious music of Laurentini had
combined with other circumstances, to pro-
duce a report that not only the chateau, but
its neighbourhood was haunted.

Soon after her entrance into this holy
Community, and before she had shewn
any symptoms of insanity there, she made
a will, in which, after bequeathing a
considerable legacy to the convent, she
divided the remainder of her personal proi
perty, which her jewels made very valu-
able, between the wife of Mons. Bonuac,
who was an Italian lady, and her rela-
tion, and the nearest surviving relative
of the late Marchioness de Villeroi. Ah
Emily St. Aubert was not only the nearest
but the sole relative, this legacy descended
to her, and thus explained to her the whole
mystery of her father's conduct.

The resemblance between Emily and her
unfortunate aunt had frequently been ob-
served by Laurentini, and had occasioned
the singular behaviour which had formerly
alarmed her ; but it was in the nun's
dying hour, when her conscience gave her
perpetually the idea of the marchioness,
that she became more sensible than ever of
this likeness, and, in her frenzy, deemed it
no resemblance of the person she had in-
jured, but the original herself. The bold
assertion that had followed on the recovery
of her senses, that Emily was the daughter
of the Marchioness de Villeroi* arose from* a

3*4

THE MVStERIES OF UDOLPHO.

suspicion thai she was so ; for, knowing
that her rival, when she married the mar-
quis, was attached to another lover, she had
scarcely scrupled to believe that her honoui
had been sacrificed, like her own, to an un
resisted passion.

Of a crime, however, to which Emily had
suspected, from her frenzied confession of
murder, that she had been instrumental in
the Castle of Udolpho, Laurentini was in-
nocent ; and she had herself been deceived
concerning the spectacle that formerly occa-
sioned her so much terror, and had since
compelled her, for a while, to attribute the
horrors of the nun to a consciousness of a
murder committed in that castle.

It may be remembered, that in a chamber
of Udolpho hung a black veil, whose singu-
lar situation had excited Emily's curiosity,
and which afterwards disclosed an object
that had overwhelmed her with horror ; for,
on lifting it, there appeared, instead of the
picture she had expected, within a recess of
the wall a human figure, of ghastly pale-
ness, stretched at its length, and dressed in
the habiliments of the grave. What added
to the horror of the spectacle, was, that the
face appeared partly decayed and disfigured
by worms, which were visible on the fea-
tures and hands. On such an object it
will be readily believed that no person could
endure to look twice. Emily, it may be re-
collected, had, after the first glance, let the
veil drop, and her terror had prevented her
from ever after provoking a renewal of such
suffering as she had then experienced. — Had
she dared to look again, her delusion and
her fears would have vanished together, and
she would have perceived, that the figure
before her was not human, but formed of
wax. The history of it is somewhat extra-
ordinary, though not without example in
the records of that fierce severity which
monkish superstition has sometimes inflicted
on mankind. 4 member of the house of
Udolpho having committed some offence
against the prerogative of the church, had
been condemned to the penance of contem-
plating, during certain hours of the day,
a waxen image, made to resemble a human
body in the state to which it is reduced after
death. This penance, serving as a me-
mento of the condition at which he must
himself arrive, had been designed to re-
prove the pride of the Marquis of Udolpho,
which had formerly so much exasperated
that of the Romish church ; and he had not
only superstitious! y observed this penance
himself, which he had believed was to obtain
a pardon for all his sins, but had made it a
condition in his will, that his descendants
should preserve the image, on pain of for-
feiting to the church a certain part of his
domain, that they also might profit by the
humiliating moral it conveyed The figure,
Uiere/uFe, had been suffered to retain it*

station in the wail of the chamber, but hit
descendants excused themselves from ob-
serving the penance to which he had been
enjoined.

This image was so horribly natural, that it
is not surprising Emily should have mis-
taken it for the object it resembled, nor,
since she had heard such an extraordinary
account concerning the disappearing of the
late lady of the castle, and had such expe-
rience of the character of Montoni, that she
should have believed this to be the mur-
dered body of the Lady Laurentini, and
that he had been the contriver of her
death.

The situation in which she had discovered
it, occasioned her, at first, much surprise
and perplexity 5 but the vigilance with
which the doors of the chamber, where it
was deposited, were afterwards secured, had
compelled her to believe, that Montoni, not
daring to confide the secret of her death to
any person, had suffered her remains to de-
cay in this obscure chamber. The ceremony
of the veil, however, and the circumstance
of the doors having been left open, even for
a moment, had occasioned lier much wonder
and some doubts ; but these were not suffi-
cient to overcome her suspicions of Montoni;
and it was the dread of his terrible ven-
geance that had sealed her lips in silence
concerning what she had seen in the west
chamber.

Emily, in discovering the Marchioness de
Villeroi to have been the sister of Mons. St.
Aubert, was variously affected ; but, amidst
the sorrow which she suffered for her un-
timely death, she was released from an
anxious and painful conjecture, occasioned
by the rash assertion of Signora Laurentini,
concerning her birth and the honour of her
parents. Her faith in St. A liberies princi-
ples would scarcely allow her to suspect that
he had acted dishonourably ; and she felt
such reluctance to believe herself the daugh-
ter of any other, thau her whom she had al-
ways considered ami loved as a mother, that
she would hardly admit such a circumstance
to be possible ; yet the likeness which it had
frequently been affirmed she bore to the
late marchioness, the former behaviour of
Dorothee the old housekeeper, the assertion
of Laurentini, and the mysterious attach-
ment which St. Aubert had discovered,
awakened doubts as to his connection with
the marchioness, which her reason could
neither vanquish or confirm. From these,
however, she was now relieved, and all the
circumstances of her father's conduct were
fully explained ; but her heart was oppress
ed by the melancholy catastrophe of her
amiable relative, and by the awful lesson
<vhich the history of the nun exhibited, the
indulgence of whose passions had been the
meaus of leading her gradually to the c<»uv
miKsijn of a cYime, from the prophc; :■> »>f

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPH0.

3?4

which in her early years she would have re-
coiled in horror, and exclaimed — that it
could not be !— a crime, which whole years
of repentance and of the severest penance
had not been able to obliterate from her con-
science.

CHAP. LVI.

'•* Then, fresh tears

Stood on her cheek, as doth the honey-dew
Upon a gather' d lily almost wither'd.

SHAKSPEARE.

After the late discoveries, Emily was
distinguished at the chateau by the count
and his family, as a relative of the house of
Villeroi, and received, if possible, more
friendly attention than had yet been shewn
her.

Count de V'lllefort's surprise at the delay
of an answer to his letter, which had been
directed to Valancourt at Estuviere, was
mingled with satisfaction for the prudence
which had saved Emily from a share of the
anxiety he now suffered, though when he
saw her still drooping under the effect of his
former error, all his resolution was neces-
sary to restrain him from relating the truth,
that would afford her a momentary relief.
The approaching nuptials of the Lady
Blanche now divided his attention with this
subject of his anxiety, for the inhabitants of
the chateau were already busied in prepara-
tions for that event, and the arrival of Mons.
St. Foix was daily expected. In the gaiety
which surrounded her, Emily vainly tried to
participate, her spirits being depressed by
the late discoveries, and by the anxiety con-
cerning the fate of Valancourt, that had been
occasioned by the description of his manner,
when he had delivered the ring. She seem-
ed to perceive in it the gloomy wildness of
despair •, and, wheu she considered to what
that despair might have urged him, her
heart sunk with terror and grief. The state
of suspense, as to his safety, to which she
believed herself condemned, till she should
return to La Vallee, appeared insupportable,
and, in such moments, she could not even
struggle to assume the composure that had
left her mind, but would often abruptly quit
the company she was with, and endeavour to
soothe her spirits in the deep solitudes of
the woods, that overbrowed the shore. Here
the faint roar of foaming waves that beat
below, and the sullen murmur of the wind
among the branches around, were circum-
stances in unison with the temper of her
mind ; and she would sit on a cliff, or on
the broken steps of her favourite watch-
tower, observing the changing colours of
the evening clouds, and the gloom of twi-
light draw over the sea, till the white tops of
billows, riding towards the shore, could
scarcely be discerned amidst the darkened
waters. The lines, engraved by Valancourt
on this tower, she frequently repeated with

melancholy enthusiasm, and then would en-
deavour to check the recollections and the
grief they occasioned, and to turn her
thoughts to indifferent subjects.

One evening, having wandered with her
lute to this her favourite spot, she entered
the ruined tower, and ascended a winding
staircase that led to a small chamber, which
was less decayed than the rest of the build-
ing, and whence she had often gazed with
admiration on the wide prospect of sea and
land that extended below. The sun was
now setting on that tract of the Pyrenees
which divides Languedoc from Rousillou,
and, placing herself opposite to a small
grated window, which like the wood tops be-
neath, and the waves lower still, gleamed
with the red glow of the west, she touched
the chords of her lute in solemn symphony,
and then accompanied it with her voice, in
one of the simple and affecting airs to which,
in happier days, Valancourt had often listen-
en in rapture, and which she now adapted
to the following lines.

TO MELANCHOLY. -

Spirit of love and sorrow — hail !

Thy solemn voice from far I hear,

Mingling with ev'niug's dying gale:

Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear!

O ! at this still, this lonely hour,
Thine own sweet hour of closing day.

Awake thy lute, whose charm ful power
Shall call up Fancy to obey.

To paint the wild romantic dream,
Tnat meets the poet's musing eye,

As on the bank of shadowy stream,
He breathes to her the fervid sigh.

0 lonely spirit! let thy song

Lead me through all thy sacred haunt ;
The minster's moon-light aisles along,
Where spectres raise the midnight chauut!

1 hear thy dirges faintly swell !
Then, sink at once in silence drear,

While from the pillar'd cloister's cell,
Dimly their gliding forms appear!

Lead where the pine-voods wave on high,
Whose pathless sod is darkly seen.

As the cold moon, with trembling eye,
Darts her long beams the leaves betwecu.

Lead to the mountain's dusky head,
Where, far below, in shade' profound.

Wide forests, plains, and hamlets spread,
And sad the chimes of vesper sound.

Or guide me where the dashing oar.
Just breaks the stillness of the vale,

As slow it tracks the winding shore,
To meet the ocean's distant sail :

To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves,
With measure'd surges, loud and deep,

Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves,
And wild the winds of autumn sweep.

There pause at midnight's spectred hour,
And list the long-resound ing gale ;

And catch the fleeting moon-light's pou'r,
O'er foaming seas and distant sail.

The soft tranquillity of the scene below,
where the evening breeze scarcely curled
the water, or swelled the passing sail that
caught the last gleam of the sun, and where
now and then, a dipping oar was all that

326

THE MYSTERIES O* (JDOLPHO.

disturbed the trembling radiance, conspired
with the tender melody of her lute to lull
her mind into a state of gentle sadness, and
she sung- the mournful songs of past times ;
till the remembrances they awakened were
too powerful for her heart, her tears fell
upon the lute, over which she dropped, and
her voice trembled, and was unable to pro-
ceed.

Though the sun had now sunk behind the
mountains, and even his reflected lig'it was
fading from* their highest points, Emily did
not leave the watch-tower, but continued to
indulge her melancholy reverie, till a foot-
step, at a little distance, startled her, and
on looking through the grate, she observed a
person walking below, whom, however,
soon perceiving to be Mons. Bonnac, she re-
turned to the quiet thoughtfulness his step
had interrupted. After some time, she again
struck her lute, and sunsr her favourite air ;
but again a step disturbed her, and, as she
paused to listen, she heard it ascending the
staircase ot the tower. The gloom of the
hour, perhaps, made her sensible to some
degree of fear, which she might not other-
wise have felt ; for only a few minutes be-
fore she had seen Mons. Bonnac pass. The
steps were quick and bounding, and, in the
next moment, the door of the chamber
opened, and a person entered, whose features
were veiled in the obscurity of twilight ; but
his voice could not be concealed, for it was
the voice of Valancourt ! At the sound,
never heard by Emily without emotion, she
started in terror, astonishment, and doubtful
pleasure, and had scarcely beheld him at
her feet when she shrunk into a seat,overcome
by the various emotions that contended at
her heart, and almost insensible to that
voice, whose earnest and trembling calls
seemed as if endeavouring to save her. Va-
lancourt, as he hung over Emily, deplored
his own rash impatience in having thus sur-
prised her : for when he had arrived at the
chateau, too anxious to await the return of
the count, who, he understood, was in the
grounds, he went himself to seek him, when,
as he passed the tower, he was struck by the
sound of Emily's voice, and immediately
ascended.

It was a considerable time before she re-
vived ; but when her recollection returned,
she repulsed his attentions with an air of
reserve, and enquired, with as much dis-
pleasure as it was possible she could feel in
these first moments of his appearance, the
occasion of his visit.

" Ah, Emily !" said Valancourt, " that
air, those words — alas ! I have, then, little
to hope! When you ceased to esteem me,
you ceased also to love me !"

" Most true, sir," replied Emily, endea-
vouring to command her trembling voice;
" and if you had valued my esteem, you

would not have given me this new occasion
for uneasiness."

Valaneourfs countenance changed sud-
denly from the anxieties of doubt to an ex-
pression of surprise and dismay : he was
silent a moment, and then said, " I had
been taught to hope for a very different re-
ception. Is it then true, Emily, that I have
lost your regard for ever ? Ami to believe,
that, though your esteem forme may return,
your affection never can ? Can the count
have meditated the cruelty which now tor-
tures me with a second death ?"

The voice in which he spoke this alarmed
Emily as much as his words surprised her;
and, with trembling impatience, she begged
that he would explain them.

"Can any explanation be necessary V'
said Valancourt •, " do you not know how
cruelly my conduct has been misrepresented?
—that the actions of which you once be-
lieved me guilty — (and, O Emily ! how
could you so degrade me inyouropinion,even
for a moment !) — those actions — 1 hold in as
much contempt and abhorrence as yourself?
Ave you, indeed, ignorant that Count de
Villefort has detected the slanders that have
robbed me of all I hold dear on earth, and
has invited me hither to justify to you my
former conduct ? It is surely impossible
you can be uninformed of these circum-
stances, and 1 am again torturing myself
with a false hope !"

The silence of Emily confirmed this sup-
position ; for the deep twilight would not
allow Valancourt to distinguish the asto-
nishment and doubting joy that fixed her
features. For a moment she continued
unable to speak; then a profound sigh
seemed to give some relief to her spirits,
and she said :

" Valancourt ! I was till this moment ig*
norant of all the circumstances you have
mentioned ; the emotion 1 now suffer may
assure you of the truth of this, and that
though I had ceased to esteem, I had not
taught myself entirely to forget you."

" This moment," said Valancourt, in a
low voice, and leaning for support against
the window, " this moment brings with it
a conviction that overpowers me ! 1 am
dear to you, then— still dear to you, my
Emily!"

" Is it necessary that I should tell you
so?" she replied; "is it necessary that 1
should say — these are the first moments of
joy I have known since your departure, and
that they repay me for all those of pain I
have suffered in the interval ?"

Valancourt sighed deeply, and was unable
10 reply; but, as he pressed her hand to his
lips, the tears that fell over it spoke a lan-
guage which could not be mistaken, and to
which words were inadequate.

Emily, somewhat tranquillized, proposed

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

327

returning to the chateau, and then, for the
first time, recollected that the count had in-
vited Valancourt thither to explain his con-
duct, and that no explanation had yet been
given. But while she acknowledged this,
her heart would not allow her to dwell for a
moment on the possibility of his unworthi-
ness : his look, his voice, his manner, all
spoke the noble sincerity which had formerly
distinguished him ; and she again permitted
herself to indulge the emotions of a joy more
surprising and powerful than she had ever
before experienced.

Neither Emily or Valancourt were con-
scious how they reached the chateau, whi-
ther they might have been transferred by the
spell of a fairy, for any thing they could re-
member ; and it was not till they had reach-
ed the great hall that either of them recol-
lected there were other persons in the world
besides themselves. The count then came
forth with surprise, and with the joyful ness
of pure benevolence, to welcome Valan-
courty and to entreat his forgiveness of the
injustice he haddone him ; — soon after which
Mons. Rnnnnr jnined this happy group, in
which he and Valancourt were mutually
rejoiced to meet.

When the first congratulations were over,
and the general joy became somewhat more
tranquil, the count withdrew with Valan-
court to the library, where a long conversa-
tion passed between them, in which the lat-
ter so clearly justified himself of the criminal
parts of the conduct imputed to him, and
so candidly confessed, and so feelingly la-
mented, the follies which he had committed,
that the count was confirmed in the belief
of all he had hoped ; and, while he perceived
so many noble virtues in Valancourt, and
that experience had taught him to detest the
follies which before he had only not ad-
mired, he did not scruple to believe, that he
would pass through life with the dignity of
a wise and good man, or to entrust to his
care the future happiness of Emily St. Au-
bert, for whom he felt the solicitude of a
parent. Of this he soon informed her, in a
short conversation, when Valancourt had
left him. While Emily listened to a rela-
tion of the services that Valancourt had ren-
dered Mons. Bonnac, her eyes overflowed
with tears of pleasure ; and the further con-
versation of Count de Villefort perfectly
dissipated every doubt as to the past and
future conduct of him, to whom she now
restored, without fear, the esteem and af-
fection with which she had formerly received
him.

When they returned to the supper-room,
the countess and Lady Blanche met Valan-
court with sincere congratulations ; and
Blanche, indeed, was so much rejoiced to
see. Emily returned to happiness, as to for-
get, for a while, that Mons. St. Foix was
not yet arrived at the chateau, though he

had been expected for some hours ; but
her generous sympathy was soon after re-
warded by his appearance. He was now
perfectly recovered from the wounds re-
ceived during his perilous adventure among
the Pyrenees -y the mention of which served
to heighten to the parties who had been in-
volved in it the sense of their present hap-
piness. New congratulations passed be-
tween them, and round the supper-table
appeared a group of faces, smiling with
felicity, but with a felicity which had in each
a different character. The smile of Blanche
was frank and gay \ that of Emily tender
and pensive ; Valancourt's was rapturous,
tender, and gay, alternately 5 Mons. St.
Foix's was joyous \ and that of the count,
as he looked on the surrounding party, ex-
pressed the tempered complacency of bene-
volence 3 while the features of the countess,
Henri, and Mons. Bonnac, discovered fainter
traces of animation. Poor Mons. Du Pont
did not, by his presence, throw a shade of
regret over the company 5 for when he had
discovered that Valancourt was not unwor-
thy of the esteem of Emily, he determined

gpiMOvmoly to «n<lootrou» at the COliqUCat of

his own hopeless affection, and had imme-
diately withdrawn from Chateau-le-Blanc—
a conduct which Emily now understood,
and rewarded with her admiration and pity.
The count and his guests continued toge-
ther till a late hour, yielding to the delights
of social gaiety, and to the sweets of friend-
ship. When Annette heard of the arrival
of Valancourt, Ludovico had some difficulty
to prevent her going into the supper-room
to express her joy 5 for she declared that
she had never been so rejoiced at any acci-
dent as this, since she had found Ludovico
himself.

CHAP. LV1I.

" Now my task is smoothly done,

I can fly, or I can run

Quickly to the green earth's end,

Where the bow'd welkin low doth bend ,

And, from thence, can soar as soon

To the corners of the moon."

MILTON.

The marriages of the Lady Blanche and
Emily St. Aubert were celebrated on the
same day, and with the ancient baronial
magnificence, at Chateau-le-Blanc. The
feasts were held in the great hall of the eas-
tle, which on this occasion was hung with
superb new tapestry, representing the ex-
ploits of Charlemagne and his twelve peers :
here were seen the Saracens, with their hor-
rible visors, advancing to battle ; and there
were displayed the wild solemnities of in-
cantation, and the necromantic feats exhi-
bited by the magician Jar I before the em-
peror. The sumptuous banners of the fa-
mily of Villeroi, which had long slept
in dust, were once more unfurled, to wave
over the Gothic points of painted casements j

328

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

and music echoed, in many a lingering close,
through every winding gallery and colonnade
of that vast edifice.

As Annette looked down from the cor-
ridor upon the hall, whose arches and win-
dows were illuminated with brilliant fes-
toons of lamps, and gazed on the splendid
dresses of the dancers, the costly liveries of
the attendants, the canopies of purple vel-
vet and gold, and listened to the gay strains
that floated along the vaulted roof, she al-
most fancied herself in an enchanted palace,
and declared, that she had not met with any
place which charmed her so much since she
read the fairy tales ; nay, that the fairies
themselves, at their nightly revels in this
old hall, could display nothing finer ; while
old Dorothee, as she surveyed the scene,
sighed, and said, the castle looked as it was
wont to do in the time of her youth.

After gracing the festivities of Chateau-
le-Blanc for some days, Valancourt and
Emily took leave of their kind friends, and
returned to La Vallee, where the faithful
Theresa received them with unfeigned joy,
and the pleasant shades welcomed them with

a tllUUSaiirl tender c»vtcl ckflFooling ifcmotn^

brances ; and while they wandered together
over the scenes so long inhabited by the late
Mens, and Madame St. Aubert, and Emily
pointed out with pensive affection their fa-
vourite haunts, her present happiness was
heightened by considering, that it would
have been worthy of their approbation, could
they have witnessed it.

Valancourt led her to the plane-tree on
the terrace, where he had first ventured to
declare his love, and where now the remem-
brance of the anxiety he had then suffered,
and the retrospect of all the dangers and
misfortunes they had each encountered,
since last they sat together beneath its broad
branches, exalted the sense of their present
felicity, which, on this spot, sacred to the
memory of St. Aubert, they solemnly vowed
to deserve, as far as possible, by endeavour-
ing to imitate his benevolence ; by remem-
bering, that superior attainments of every
sort bring with them duties of superior
exertion \ and, by affording to their fellow-
beings, together with that portion of ordi-
nary comforts which prosperity always owes
to misfortune, the example of lives passed
in happy thankfulness to God, and, there-
fore, in careful tenderness to his creatures.

Soon after their return to La Vallee, the
brother of Valancourt came to congratulate
him on his marriage, and to pay his respects
to Emily, with whom he was so much

pleased, as well as with the prospect of ih~
tional happiness which these nuptials of-
fered to Valancourt, that he immediately
resigned to him a part of the rich domain,
the whole of which, as he had no family,
would of course descend to his brother, on
his decease.

The estates at Thoulouse were disposed
of, and Emily purchased of Mons. Quesnel
the ancient domain of her late father, where,
having given Annette a marriage portion,
she settled her as the housekeeper, and Lu-
dovico as the steward 5 but, since both Va-
lancourt and herself preferred the pleasant
and long-loved shades of La Vallee to the
magnificence of Epourville, they continued
to reside there, passing, however, a few
months in the year at the birth-place of St.
Aubert, in tender respect to his memory.

The legacy which had been bequeathed
to Emily by Signora Laurentini, she begged
Valancourt would allow her to resign to
Mons. Bonnac 5 and Valancourt, when she
made the request, felt all the value of the
compliment it conveyed. The castle of
Udolpho, also, desc^mlprl to the wife of
Mons. Bonnac, who was the nearest survi-
ving relation of the house of that name, and
thus affluence restored his long^oppressed
spirits to peace, and his family to comfort.

O ! how joyful it is to tell of happiness,
such as that of Valancourt and Emily !— to
relate that, after suffering under the op-
pression of the vicious, and the disdain of
the weak, they were, at length, restored to
each other — to the beloved landscapes of
their native country—- to the securest felicity
of this life, that of aspiring to moral, and
labouring for intellectual, improvement—
to the pleasures of enlightened society, and
to the exercise of the benevolence which had
alwayv animated their hearts ; while the
bowf .j La Vallee became once more the
retreat ot goodness, wisdom, and domestic
blessedness !

O ! useful may it be to have shewn, that,
though the vicious can so» times pour af-
fliction upon the good, faeir power .is tran-
sient, and their punishment Certain ; and
that innocence, though oppressed by injus-
tice, shall, supported by patience, finally
triumph over misfortune !

And if the weak hand that has recorded
this tale has, by its scenes, beguiled the
mourner of one hour of sorrow, or, by its
moral, taught him to sustain it, the effort,
however humble; has not been vain, nor is
the writer unrewarded.

THE END

JOSEPH SMITH. PRINTER, 193, HIGH HOLfiORN

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